Silent Teardrops
by Muddy Poodle
Summary: To beat the villain, she needs to become the better villain. Sydney/Sark.
1. Prologue

**I. PROLOGUE**

The first time they had her kill an innocent man in cold blood, she went outside afterward and threw up in the street.

_Who this man is, is not important. What is important is this knife on the table. Use it. Kill this unimportant man._

She has no problem with self-defense. If it's between his life or hers, she chooses hers. The thing is, he is unarmed and unaware; she is hard pressed to convince herself that this is self-defense at all. But it is her test, her final challenge, and they all know it. If she is capable of this she is capable of anything, and they will never question her loyalties again.

It is with this knowledge that she grips the knife and buries it into the man's neck up to the hilt. She neither flinches nor hesitates, and she knows this callousness delights them. They welcome her to the team with broad smiles and open arms, bathing in the glow of their newest rising star. What they don't see is how she stumbles outside and rejects her bile onto the pavement in a torrent of sick and remorse.

That was her final initiation and after that night, she swore never to look back ever again.

Three long years pass and she remains true to her promise. Empathy, compassion, and a clear conscious are no longer elements to her advantage, so she renders them obsolete.

_Who are you?_

She does not bleed. None can touch her, none can escape her, and none can resist her. While her left hand lulls you with scintillating charm, you never even hear the right hook coming. Unparalleled instincts make her their best contract killer; calculated shrewdness makes her their most cunning asset. Sometimes, she deliberately is this way because she knows it pleases them. They love delighting in her, their prized dark angel. Pride deceives them into believing she is their creation when really, she was never theirs to create.

_There's a line we've sworn never to cross. If there's one rule you don't break, that's the rule you don't break. _

No, she's not crossing the line. Not really. She flirts with it, maybe. Plays with it. Probably toes it from time to time. But what other choice is there? She serves the enemy, after all, waxing loyalty and charm. And as much as it disgusts her—as much as she despises herself for simpering at their every command—she vows to see this through. One day, she will reveal to them her true endgame. One day. If the price to pay for their doom is her soul, she offers it readily as insurance.

To beat the villain, she needs to be the better villain.

_Who are you, whom I so faintly hear?_

It's enough to drive a person mad, not knowing who you are. How long can she continue the deception before she loses herself completely to it?

_No one is an island unto oneself. _

But she _is _alone. She's in this fight for her and her alone, and it's a harrowing thing to experience. It's fear and it's thunder and it's shaking and it's the physical manifestation of her reality.

_Here comes the flood._

For one brief infinitesimal moment, the dam breaks.

The fear grips its hold, racks her body, seeps through her veins. But only for a moment. Only for one brief infinitesimal moment, because once the armor is broken—once the gauntlet is down and the truth unveiled—there really is no hiding the reality any longer.

She is alone.

The silent teardrops sting so bitter when she's alone.


	2. No Man's Woman

**II. NO MAN'S WOMAN**

**Berlin, Germany**

"And you're sure we're alone?"

"Trust me," whispered CIA Agent Tony Rotter, slipping his arms around her waist, "we won't be disturbed." Sweeping her long, silky hair aside, he trailed his lips over the hard muscles at the back of her shoulder and up the smooth skin at her neck. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, eliciting a shudder as he nipped lightly at her ear.

With startling speed and agility, she whipped around and propelled him unexpectedly across the room. Their bodies slammed violently against the wall, knocking the wind out of them both. Gripping him by the lapels, she pulled him roughly toward her, allowing him to hook the back of her knee and hitch her leg snug around his waist.

Rotter pressed her body against the wall for another bruising kiss, drinking in her taste, her intoxicating scent. "You're so beautiful," he repeated breathlessly, dipping his head to her chest.

But she ripped her wrists from his grasp and shoved him away with two strong hands upon his chest. He stumbled backward, confused, but she gripped the back of his neck and pulled his face to hers once more. "Take off your shirt," she panted heavily into his mouth.

Like he was in any position to refuse. Immediately, he shrugged away his jacket and flung it haphazardly aside. It took him a few seconds to figure out why it rattled so loudly when it hit the ground, but then he remembered that his gun was probably still in the pocket.

A set of nails raked their way down his chest and tore at the fabric of his Italian silk shirt, sending the buttons pinging lightly to the floor. Rotter wiggled his way from the remainder of his shirt while she wrenched her own dress over her shoulders. Another pair of fists slammed against his chest and he hit the mattress, smooth thighs straddling him at the hips and pinning him on his back.

"Gee, lady, you're _really _aggressive," he panted appreciatively, running his hands feverishly along her back.

"You'd be surprised what I know about you besides what turns you on, Mr. Rotter."

Rotter's eyes flew open at the mention of his name, but just as he pulled away he felt the blade of a knife press against his throat.

"Move again and you're dead."

Quick fingers, no longer warm and passionate, raked the waistband and pockets of his pants, but Rotter knew that the only weapon he had with him was nestled safe and useless in his jacket across the room.

He winced as she squeezed his chin between her fingers, forcing him to meet her steely gaze. "Well, Agent Rotter, this looks to be a permanent black mark on your record, doesn't it?"

"What do you want?"

The beautiful face above his creased into a smile, the image somehow doing little to assuage his unease. "You'll find out soon enough," she answered quietly, running one slender finger down the side of his face. "But don't worry. I need you alive…for now."

He grit his teeth. "Whoever you are…whoever you work for…I'm not giving you a thing. Whatever you want, you've already lost."

"Brave." Bending low, she brushed her lips to his ear. "But I've got bad news for you, man: I am your worst enemy. I _have_ nothing to lose."

A sharp elbow to the face and Rotter passed into blackness.

* * *

**Washington, D.C.**

"You're telling me you don't know where she is?" thundered NSC Director Robert Lindsay into his cellular phone.

Sounding rather abashed, the younger man on the line seemed to stumble through his next few words. "_We've—we'll find her again, sir. We found her once, we'll find her again—"_

"She's one woman, Agent Weiss! One woman! For all your attempts, you're no closer to locating her now than you were three years ago!"

_"All due respect, sir, but what would you have us do? Put a man at the airport? Track her cards? You know she's smarter than that."_

Lindsay stopped beside his car, gripping the phone tightly in his hand lest he be tempted to fling it across the parking garage. "I don't want excuses, Agent Weiss, I want results! I am holding your office personally responsible for the disposition of Sydney Bristow. If she is not in federal custody by the end of the week, there's going to be hell to pay!"

_"Sir—"_

"You find her, you detain her, you bring her in!" Incensed, he slapped the phone shut and jammed it inside his breast pocket. Lurching heavily behind the wheel of his car, he slammed the door closed behind him.

"I _thought_ I heard my name a few times."

The shock was enough to make him jump a few inches from his seat, swearing profusely, before glowering darkly at the figure in the rearview mirror. "_You!_"

Sure enough, none other than Sydney Bristow herself was perched daintily in the backseat of his car, one knee drawn to her chest in the perfect picture of ease. "You know who I am, Director Lindsay," she smiled broadly. "And we've never even been formally introduced."

The knuckles on his hands were bleeding white from gripping the steering wheel so hard. "Surprised?" he managed through clenched teeth.

"Flattered."

"You have a lot of nerve coming here," he fumed.

"I hear you're looking for me. Thought I'd save you the time. The way I hear it, you called in a few favors to have the D.O.J. list me as an enemy of the state."

Lindsay twisted angrily in his seat. "I hated to pull rank, but the Department of Justice _is_ my jurisdiction. You are an international fugitive, Bristow. Surely you expected nothing less than immediate action on my part the instant you decided to turn against your country!"

"I prefer not to think of it like that."

"No? You were dishonorably discharged and convicted of treason, not to mention you are now actively abetting a known terrorist syndicate. You're a traitor to your country and a disgrace to your agency. So tell me, Bristow: how _is_ it like?"

For her reply, a slow smile crept into the corners of her mouth, further infuriating him.

"Did it slip your mind that I am the _Director _of the National Security Council?" he roared, his booming voice reverberating inside the small car. "You couldn't even begin to imagine the power and clout I have! I wouldn't have a second's hesitation putting a bullet between your eyes right now!"

Sydney unexpectedly lurched forward, making him recoil at the sudden movement. "Do it, then," she sneered. "Show me how it's done."

It was only then that Lindsay noticed the gun in her hand. Slowly, he faced forward again. "You don't frighten me," he said stubbornly, nevertheless eyeing her warily through the rearview mirror.

Her eyes darkened instantly and for one brief moment, her mouth twisted into a terrible snarl. "Then clearly, you're an idiot."

A fist struck out directly above his shoulder, making him flinch, but she only dropped a manila envelope in his lap. "What's this?" he demanded.

"Open it."

With stiff fingers, he pulled out a set of black and white photographs. "What is this?" he repeated, though less harshly this time.

"Two of your undercover agents at Laszig Aerospace: Rotter and Klein. And on the back—" Lindsay flinched again as her hand shot out, but she merely flipped over the photographs, "—are coordinates to a designated location. Go there. Retrieve the package. Follow our demands."

"Excuse me, are you threatening me?" sputtered Lindsay.

"I am."

"Do you really think I'm the kind of man you can bully into doing whatever you want?"

"I do."

"I will not be blackmailed by a fugitive!"

"Your call. But you know, I _am _vaguely concerned about Agents Rotter and Klein. As you can see by the photos, they're not feeling well. What a shame for them to die because of your own personal vendetta against me, don't you think?"

Lindsay closed his eyes and grimaced, positively certain a blood vessel was going to pop in his neck. "You better hope we don't meet like this next time, Bristow." His hands balled instinctively into little fists when he felt the cold barrel of a gun press against his temple.

"No, Director Lindsay, _you _better hope we don't meet like this next time. Because the next time we do? You won't be able to wear a hat again."

And just like that, Lindsay heard her bolt from the car and slam the door shut. Swiping the sweat from his brow, he released a labored, shaky breath of air that he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. But just as he rested his forehead against the steering wheel, a sharp tap at his window made him jump another few inches from his seat.

It was Sydney, gesturing with the gun for him to lower his window. "One more thing, Director. That photo of me on the D.O.J.'s watchlist? I want that gone by tomorrow morning."


	3. The Man In Front of the Man

**III. THE MAN IN FRONT OF THE MAN**

"Excu—these are restricted quarters. I need to ask you to—"

A quick scuffle, a snap, then a strangled cry of pain before the unmistakable thud of a heavy body collapsing to the floor.

Then, an all-too familiar female voice: "Touch me again and I break more than just your wrist." The double doors across the room flew open with a thunderous _bang! _and she swept predictably into the room. "_Cole!_"

Laughing to himself, McKenas Cole made a show of sitting upright in the bed before regaling her with his signature, boyish grin. "Sydney Bristow!" he exulted with nothing short of pure delight. "And right on time!"

Sydney kicked the foot of the bed. "Who's this?" she asked, nodding curtly at the half naked woman curled beside him.

"Ah, this is—"

"Get out. Now."

The girl looked up at him with a quizzical expression as if silently asking his permission to stay, but Cole chuckled darkly. "Better do what the little lady says," he told her cheerfully.

As soon as the woman scampered from the room, Sydney snatched his robe from the foot of the bed and pelted it at his face. "You disgust me."

"You're cute when you're jealous," he chortled good-naturedly as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

"You had me followed."

Cole raised a disinterested eyebrow, securing his robe. "Is that a question?"

"If there's something you want to know about me, ask. Don't send your Boy Scouts to follow me."

Deliberately sidestepping her, he proceeded to pour a few inches of Scotch into a glass tumbler. "The sanctity of this organization requires the sacrifice of some personal freedoms. I assigned security section to—"

She knocked the glass from his hand. "This wasn't security section. This wasn't standard procedure. These were _trackers _and they have been constant. I have seen them _three times_ in the past two days. If there's something you want to know about me, ask."

Nudging aside the broken glass at his feet, he poured himself a new drink. "I needed you back here straight away."

"For what?"

"To talk."

A muscle visibly twinged near her jaw. "I'm not accustomed to being summoned at your beck and call like a lapdog."

The corners of his lips twitched as he labored to suppress a giggle. "Don't worry about that, Pigtails. You're always welcome in my lap."

"Are you insane?" she snapped, her deep brown eyes hardening to pools of black. "Bringing me here for a social visit? The CIA has an entire department right now whose sole responsibility is to track down my whereabouts. I am risking my cover at the Covenant—and you yours—every time you pull a stunt like this. So do me a favor: don't be so friendly."

Even in her anger, Sydney Bristow was nothing short of breathtaking. Looking every bit the beautiful temptress that she was, she carried with her all the wrath and cunning that made her as dynamic as she was dangerous. While her left hand lulled you with scintillating charm, you didn't even hear the right hook coming.

And Cole adored her for that.

"Let me be clear about something, Syd, in case the details are a little fuzzy to you," he began, gesturing that she should follow him from the room. "I like you. Always have. I like having you around. You're good to look at, you know? Like having a nice piece of art in the lobby. Just don't forget who you work for here. I may not be the man behind the Covenant, but you can still think of me as the man in front of the man. So when I tell you to do something, you do it. I say move, you move. I say stop, you stop. I say sing, you say—"

"Name that tune," finished Sydney sourly.

"Exactly! That's why we hired you on. Not only do you share our wonderful loathing of the CIA but you understand the value of the chain of command." As he ducked around the corner for a hasty change of clothing, he added appreciatively to himself, "And I wouldn't kick _that _out of bed, either…"

"I delivered your message," she called blandly to him. "The CIA should have followed the coordinates to Munich by now."

A hearty chuckle rumbled past his throat. "I bet snagging dear Agent Rotter wasn't too hard either."

"Standard procedure. Men are pathetically predictable enough."

Another laugh as he stepped into view, shrugging into his tailor chuckled. "Could you have blamed him? Ah, come on, you don't give yourself nearly enough credit! Look at you! You're deliciously irresistible, stunning! Have you ever met someone you _couldn't _charm?"

A smug sort of smirk in response.

"Ah, you're just good old-fashioned trouble, Syd. I pity the poor fellow who ends up breaking _your_ heart. Then again, you already know what that feels like, don't you?"

And just like that, his words instantly wiped the smirk off her face.

"By the way," continued Cole over his shoulder as he descended the stairs two at a time, "I need you to deliver another message for me."

"Something wrong with your phone?" came her terse reply.

"Not that kind of message."

"Who's the target?"

"Toni Cummings."

"Can't do it. You know that. After her release from federal custody, Toni Cummings went so far underground that even I wouldn't know where to find her."

He waved this minor inconvenience idly aside. "You and I both know it would take a lot more than a hiccup like that stop you."

"I don't know where she is."

"You're creative. You'll think of something."

Rather than finish taking the stairs, he darted into an elevator at the last minute and jammed the proper button with thick fingers. Just as the doors were closing, an arm forced the doors open again and Sydney stepped inside. Cole clasped one hand briskly over his wrist and hummed a cheerful tune, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.

As the elevator finally arrived on their level, Sydney continued quietly, "Even if I did somehow locate Toni Cummings, I'll never get access. She's too well protected. I'll be dead before I get within thirty feet of her."

"A foil in our diabolical plan. Which brings me to my next point: for this assignment, we're going with the buddy system. Here. Friend of yours will need a ride from the airport soon."

Sydney snatched the folder he offered her and flipped it open. "Julian Sark? That's who you want me to partner with?"

"Why not? The guy's a hoot. That is to say, he can get you access to Cummings no problem. But like I said he'll need a pickup first, maybe even a little sunscreen. Lear's scheduled in Mexico in less than forty-eight hours."

"I thought he was in federal custody."

"His exchange is all part of the deal, sweetheart. His life for Rotter's. Try to keep up. I'm sending you to head the exchange with the CIA. Get dear Mr. Sark to safety, find out what's on the menu in federal prison these days, and prep him for your next assignment."

Sydney snagged his elbow. "Why me?"

"Why you?"

"Staging a hostage exchange? Sending messages, picking up your garbage? It's busy work, something any of your regular lackeys can do without me holding their hands. So why send me?"

But he waggled his finger playfully at her, clicking his tongue. "Ah-ah ah! Remember what we talked about? Chain of command, babe! If I say move, you move. If I say stop, you stop. If I say jump, you say…?"

"You first."

"Yes, well, while that was a moderately clever retort, my point remains. Bring me Julian Sark, alive. And Syd? You can consider that an order straight from the top."


	4. An Old Friend

**IV. AN OLD FRIEND**

A visit from the security guards to his prison cell could only mean one thing: an exchange was about to take place.

Julian Sark was no stranger to the system; he knew the drill by now: hold both wrists out—palms up—to allow for easier locking of the handcuffs and the prickly, burlap sack would shield his eyes and stifle his nose with the stench of stale earth. It was lucky he remembered the exact number of stairs to climb in his ascent past the holding facilities this time, for he received little sympathy to his bruised shins whenever he tripped and fumbled in his steps.

And of course, the moment the blindfold was removed from his head he would find himself seated on a simple metal bench in a large moving van. Steel cuffs around his wrists and ankles were to be expected, naturally, as were the team of stern-faced agents sulking mutely beside him. Each time he shifted unexpectedly, the entire team would tense at the sudden movement and slip trigger-happy fingers over their guns.

It was the ultimate cliché, and Sark found solace that he was almost past it.

A one hour drive from the helipad in Baja California and they'd finally reached the exchange point in the Sonoran Desert. To repeatedly useless questions, Sark always shook his head in the negative. _No_, in the two years he'd been in federal custody he hadn't heard of the Covenant. _No_, he couldn't imagine why they'd want to make this trade.

Based off the smatterings of conversation he had picked up, he deduced that this organization—the Covenant—was the newest and latest threat to the U.S. government, and that they'd agreed to an exchange with the CIA: one of their captured CIA operatives for Julian Sark himself.

As he'd told an exasperated Marcus Dixon countless times before the exchange, it was just as much a mystery to him as it was to the CIA what advantage he could possibly offer to an organization he'd never even heard of and, quite frankly, it mattered not to him. One detention facility to another; it made no difference at this point.

The fingers that unclasped the cuffs around his wrist and ankles were rough and unkind. He massaged his wrists tenderly, privately wishing that agent ill will while he strolled offhandedly across the blazing desert sand to the team of Covenant vehicles parked 500 feet away.

As he reached the middle point and as he passed the CIA operative that was taking his place, Sark's ears picked up what sounded like a helicopter churning their way. Odd. An interesting venture to undertake during the middle of an exchange—

A droning order projected down at them over a bullhorn was promptly drowned out by the _pop! pop! pop! _of gunfire. Survival instincts sent him sprawling face first on the dusty desert sand. He peered to his side at the equally perplexed CIA agent, then ahead as both CIA and Covenant operatives alike yelled and cursed as they lunged for cover. A screeching whine—then an explosion—from above and the CIA helicopter was churning smoke from one of its engines. Sark watched, gleeful, as the bird spun frantically in the air, its blades so near to the ground that it kicked billows of sand and dust into the air.

So enraptured was he by this that he didn't even notice the black sedan until it screamed to a halt in front of him. "Get in!" a woman's voice shouted.

No need to ask _him _twice. He leaped from the ground like a sprinter at the first gunshot and all but dove into the backseat of the car.

The CIA operative who was to released in the exchange with him also made to leap in the backseat, but a slender arm out the passenger window stopped him. "Not you."

A single gunshot and the man fell motionless to the desert floor. Sark blinked, then hurriedly shut the door. The car zoomed away, tossing him so violently in every direction that he needed to brace one hand against the roof of the vehicle to prevent his head from slamming into it.

It wasn't until they were a considerable distance away that the woman in the front seat barked, "Stop here! We're switching cars."

Sark jerked at the sound. He knew that voice…

The woman turned around to face him for the first time and he couldn't control the startled gasp that escaped his lips. "My God," he whispered. "Sydney Bristow?"

For her reply, she pistol-whipped him into unconsciousness.

**The Sonoran Desert, Mexico**

By the time he came to, he was greeted with an unpleasant stinging sensation across his right cheek. Cursory surveillance of his surroundings indicated they were holding him in an interrogation facility, not unlike the CIA's humanitarian version of what Arvin Sloane had once coined a "conversation room."

A quiet shuffling of feet from behind and he stiffened.

"He's awake," murmured a low, gravelly voice.

"Leave us."

"Bristow—"

"It's all right, Tom. We're old friends."

The door opened and clanged obediently shut and an all-too-familiar face was suddenly looming before him.

Sark sat frozen, hardly daring to believe his eyes. "Sydney Bristow?" he breathed in bewildered wonderment.

_Crack._

Her fist collided with his jaw—knuckle on bone, flesh against flesh, pain slamming into pain.

"That was for Will and Francie," she bit coldly, fists clenched stiffly by her sides.

Sark resisted the urge to massage his jaw, unwilling to boost her ego with that small measure of satisfaction. "Sydney—"

_Crack._

His head whipped sideways again at the force of the second blow in the same tender spot as before. Straight wrist, closed elbow, square to the jaw—seminary style. The CIA had taught her well.

He turned to wipe his mouth on his shoulder, tasted blood, and spat. "And what was that one for?" he growled.

"I don't know," she said indifferently, stepping back and crossing her slender arms over her chest. "I'll get back to you."

"Right," he said bitterly, working his jaw. "Right, so now that we've exchanged the proper pleasantries, it appears rumors of _your _death have been greatly exaggerated."

"Don't start this conversation by acting surprised I'm alive," Sydney snapped, her glare hardened by the toll the years had taken on her.

He raised his eyebrows. "You think I had something to do with your apparent murder."

It was a rhetorical question, one that Sydney answered with a sharpened glare as cunning as her father's.

"Well," he mused thoughtfully, "I suppose I should be flattered."

"Flattered?"

"Flattered," he repeated, "that you would think me so capable of organizing your alleged death from the confines of a governmental detention facility. I never knew you regarded my abilities as an operative so highly, Agent Bristow. As I have said before, I suppose I should be flattered. But you know," he added as an afterthought, "I don't really believe you brought me here for praise."

"Is that so?"

"No, because I happen to know it requires a rather exorbitant amount of effort to arrange an exchange such as the one that took place not five hours ago. I can't imagine you allowed that to occur for the purpose of asking me questions you knew I surely wouldn't have the answers to, so it begs the question: what can I do for you, Sydney?"

"I need your help."

"You're lying."

"_Am _I."

Sark smiled wryly, placating her. "You're Sydney Bristow. You've cheated death itself. There isn't anything in the world you couldn't get if you truly needed it. It's obvious neither of us want me here, much less for my help, so who's _really _asking?"

"The Covenant."

He threw back his head and laughed. "Clearly, you must be joking."

"Clearly, I'm not laughing."

He leaned back, regaling her with a doubtful eye. "Am I to assume correctly that this…this _Covenant…_is a terrorist organization working against the CIA?"

"Correct."

"An enemy of the United States."

"Correct."

"And you are aligned with them?"

"Correct."

"They are _your _employer?"

"Correct."

A low chuckle rumbled deep in the back of his throat until he was no longer able to suppress it.

"Something amuses you?" murmured Sydney quietly, her low voice barely audible above his peals of mirth.

"I-I'm sorry," he gasped between great gulps of air, "it's just…I can't be the first person to have difficulty taking you seriously, can I?"

_Craack._

With one swift movement, she'd driven the palm of her hand directly into his nose, eliciting from him a yelp of both pain and surprise. She pressed down idly on the bridge of his nose, causing him to wince and wrench away. "I think I broke it," she remarked lightly with the air of someone chatting over afternoon tea.

Waxing tears of pain, Sark dipped his chin deliberately low to his chest, faking a low groan while he was at it. When she crouched down to eye level, he reared back his head and crashed his forehead into hers with as much strength as he could muster. The resounding crack to his skull triggered fresh tears of pain, but he delighted in the knowledge that it probably hurt her more than it hurt him.

His attack only momentarily stunned her, but one brief second was all he needed. Leaping to his feet, he looped his wrists easily on either side of her face and wrapped the steel chain of his handcuffs taut around her neck. Thin fingers clawed at the chain but he would have none of that.

A door across the room burst open immediately and two men advanced upon him, weapons raised.

He hauled Sydney roughly to her feet. "Easy, gentlemen, easy," he warned, yanking her body in front of his like a shield.

"Sark—"

"Shhh, shhh," he whispered soothingly in her ear, pressing his cheek against the side of her face as she bucked violently against him. "Don't fight it, don't fight it. I wouldn't want to harm you now, would I—"

A sharp prick in his upper thigh caught him by surprise. He loosened his grip and felt her elbow collide into his throat. The breath choked from his lungs with a strangled gurgling noise and he choked, gagging and coughing unexpectedly for air. He felt her twist deftly from his arms and the next thing he knew, he was lying flat on his back on the middle of the concrete floor.

"Are you all right, Miss Bristow?" he heard someone murmur questioningly overhead.

"I'm fine," came the raspy reply.

Something was wrong with his field of vision now. The more that he blinked, the more things swarmed in and out of focus. Remembering the sharp pain in his thigh, he yanked what felt like a tranquilizing needle from his leg, already feeling the peculiar and unmistakable loss of sensation in his fingertips.

A furious—but lovely—face loomed above his. Cold fingers latched onto his shirt collar and wrenched his upper body from the ground.

His consciousness rapidly fading away, he burbled sluggishly, "Did you know…that your nose crinkles when you're angry? It's quite fetching, actually."

A fist collided mercilessly with his face and Sark passed into the oblivion.


	5. Tokyo Rose in the Third

**V. TOKYO ROSE IN THE THIRD  
**

"Get up! We're leaving_."_

Sark rolled gingerly onto his side, his body still fighting the after-effects of whatever sedative she'd injected him with. Heaving an exaggerated groan, he made a show of propping himself upright into a sitting position. "Why?" he muttered groggily. "You intend to drug me again?"

"Don't tempt me." Sydney threw a bundle of freshly laundered clothes at his head. "Put those on."

He raised an eyebrow, alert. "I take it I am to be released."

"Hardly. Put those on."

Either professional courtesy or personal discomfort made her look away as he began to retire his old clothing right in front of her. "You know, I've heard quite the rumors about you the past few years," he called as he unbuckled his pants.

"Is that so?" she cooed, looking pointedly away.

"Indeed," he said, pulling the new shirt down over his bare chest. "It's remarkable, really, the stories you hear while locked for years in a federal penitentiary. Stories about your alleged death, stories about your latest predilections…of course, the rumors don't do the real subject justice."

"You flatter me."

"But I must admit…when I first learned of Agent Vaughn's marriage to the illustrious Miss Reed, I almost felt pity for the memory of you." Fully dressed, Sark tossed aside the wad of old clothes and sauntered over. "Tell me, Sydney, how did you feel when you discovered the man you loved had already given his heart to another woman after a mere three months following your alleged disappearance?"

Deliberately provoking Sydney Bristow was tantamount to prodding a sleeping dragon in the eye, but it would be a self-indulging tactic that would fuel his self-esteem and provide an outlet of satisfaction that would last for days.

Much to his disappointment, she didn't so much as bat an eye. "Time to go," she said coolly, gesturing that he should follow her from the holding cell.

Considering his most recent—albeit unsuccessful—attempt to escape from Covenant custody, Sark was impressed that she didn't appear to garner any hesitation about being in a car alone with him. Granted, even as she climbed behind the wheel, her right hand never strayed far from the sidearm resting on the center console between them, but he could have easily seized it and overpowered her. Surely even _she_ must have been aware of the fact. Why else would she place a loaded weapon so conspicuously within his reach?

"I don't expect you'll let on where we're going," he remarked offhandedly from the front seat, throwing a sidelong glance her direction. "Or what the Covenant wants with me?"

"You'll find out soon enough."

A sort of mocking half-smile crept onto his face. "I don't recall you being nearly this cryptic in the past."

"People change."

"_Things _change," he corrected, bracing one hand against the ceiling as she directed the car into an especially sharp right turn. "People don't."

"You'd be surprised."

Sark chuckled quietly. "True," he conceded. "The way that fate repeatedly insists on bringing us together never ceases to astound. What have I always told you? _We're destined to work together. _I truly believe that, you must know."

"Mmm."

"Remember when I asked you to work for me? Three years ago at Fapsi headquarters in Moscow?"

"Mmm."

"I meant it," he continued. "You must know how highly I esteemed your abilities as an operative. How highly I still do."

"Mmm."

"And you recall your performance in Tokyo, the one where you believed I intended to murder Arvin Sloane?"

"Mmm."

"I do imagine that was one of your most astounding achievements to date."

"Mmm."

"Ah, but no…my _absolute favorite _must have been when you overthrew SD-6 and the Alliance! It was remarkable, really, how you managed to gain access to Server 47—"

"Sark, what are you doing?"

He shrugged. "I'm simply seizing the opportunity to get to know each other better."

"No, that's not what you're doing." Their vehicle pulled in line at a long stoplight, and Sydney twisted sharply in her seat. "Let me make something perfectly clear to you. Whatever friendship you're trying to make—whatever _bond_ you're attempting to forge between us—it won't work. Despite whatever mutual experiences you think we might have, you and I have nothing in common. We are not friends. We are never going to _become_ friends."

"Fair enough. Then perhaps you can tell me what it is you're really up to."

"What do you mean?"

"In letting go of all pretexts and subterfuge, we can finally admit the truth. You and I both know you would never align yourself with an organization like the Covenant, so it begs the question: what is your _true _endgame, Sydney?"

"I suppose that's for me to know and for _you_ to…how does the cliché go?"

"Tell me this isn't a repeat of your covert agenda inside SD-6. I needn't inform you of how pathetically predictable that would be."

"This isn't SD-6 at all."

"Then allow me to ask the most obvious question in the history of time: how does one go from serving one's country to betraying it with an internationally-known terrorist organization?"

"People change."

"You can't possibly expect me to believe that." An abrupt swerve of the vehicle caught him off guard and Sark threw his hand out before him lest his head crack painfully against the dashboard.

Sydney edged the car parallel against a curb before slamming the gears into "park," turning off the engine, and twisting to face him once more. "You want the truth? The truth is there's nothing left for me at the CIA anymore. The Covenant recruited me three years ago for the same reason they tasked me to recruit you: neither of us have anywhere else to go."

Sark snatched the gun lying between them, grabbed the back of her neck, and dug the weapon into the fleshy side of her throat. "And to think that there was once a time when I might have actually believed that."

"You're a fugitive from the federal government now. Everyone from the CIA to the NSC will be looking for you. How far do you think you'll get before they find you?"

"We both know you aren't acting for my benefit."

"I have nothing to hide, nothing to gain by lying to you."

He dug the barrel harder against her throat, his fingers curling tighter around the soft hair at the nape of her neck. "Nothing to gain? Not even your life?"

"You won't kill me."

"Won't I?'

"If you were going to squeeze the trigger, you would have done it by now." She twisted free and knocked the weapon from his hand faster than he could react, the gun clattering out of reach somewhere beneath his seat.

Sark blinked. "You're good."

"If you want to run, run. Disappear. I won't stop you. You can gamble the chances on your own, keep a low profile, maybe even try your hand at freelance work one day. _Or_…you can come with me instead and see what the Covenant has to offer you."

"What exactly do you propose?"

"I need to deliver a message to Toni Cummings and I need you to give me access to her."

Toni Cummings? "I remember her," he realized out loud. "I haven't seen her since she was taken into custody. She and I…well, let's just say I knew her. In the Biblical sense."

"Yes, unfortunately I am very aware of the sordid details of your relationship together," she replied coldly, witheringly. "That's why I need you with me on this. With a history like yours, you're almost guaranteed access. I can't get to her alone."

He nodded. "Enter, me."

"Are you going to cooperate?"

He looked doubtfully out the window. "You think this is where we'll find her? A racetrack?"

Rolling her eyes, Sydney kicked open her door. "No, idiot, this is _how_ I find her."

Thoroughly intrigued by this unexpected turn of events, Sark followed her obligingly to a betting and ticketing window just outside the entrance to the main racetracks. Despite the large crowd of people in the immediate area, the only person standing in line was an unfamiliar, South American male in his early thirties.

As the man stepped to the window to fill out a betting card, Sydney sidled beside him and propped one elbow casually on the counter. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," she said lightly, peering at his card. "You want my advice? Next race, take Tokyo Rose in the third. It's a sure bet."

Whether a shrewd prediction or coded phrase among colleagues, her words had a curious effect on the stranger. The man flinched, eyes darting first to her, then to Sark, then back to Sydney with horrified recognition. "Sydney Bristow," he whispered at last past a gulp.

She held up a pair of tickets. "Box seats. Come on."

When the three of them were situated in their private box overlooking the tracks, the man turned mournfully to Sydney. "I knew the Covenant would send its own, but I did not know they would send their best."

She affected an innocent but completely unconvincing smile. "Really, Cesar, in broad daylight? In front of all these people? Is that what you really think me capable?"

"What," he scoffed, "no future in murder anymore?"

"Re-lax. I'm not here for that. Yet."

He shot a furtive glance at Sark. "Who is this?"

Sydney waved a hand lazily in the air. "He's with me. Cesar Martinez, Julian Sark. Sark, Cesar. Mr. Sark is on loan to us by special request from McKenas Cole himself."

Cesar Martinez blanched visibly at the mention of the name. "Look, Sydney, if this is about the Chilean armory job, tell Cole that I only need a little more time. I will get him the money, I swear!"

"Frankly, I don't care whether McKenas Cole gets his money or not."

"Then are you going to tell me why you are here or you just going to kill me?"

"I'm looking for a woman named Toni Cummings. I'd like you to tell me where she is."

"And how would I know?"

Sydney's expression clouded over instantly, her dark eyes hardening to steel. "Don't do that, Cesar," she warned. "Don't underestimate my intelligence."

"I don't know anyone by the name of Toni Cummings."

"I have it on good authority that you do."

"Would I lie to you?"

"I sure hope not, for your sake."

"I can't help you. I'm sorry."

Sydney tilted her head to the side, seemingly considering him. "The thing is, Cesar, there's something I never told you."

"What's that?"

"You're a terrible liar."

The unexpected blast of a gunshot made Sark leap to his feet. Lucky for them, the sound was drowned out by the roar of excited shouts erupting around the stadium below.

Cesar was shrieking, clutching at his bloodied upper thigh with trembling hands. "You shot me!"

"That's right," Sydney said, rising to her feet and shifting the gun in her hand, "and I'll _keep _shooting until you either bleed to death or tell me what I need to know."

"I don't know where she is!"

She pressed the barrel to his other kneecap and fired. His ensuing yells of pain reverberated louder and shriller than before as he jerked and writhed in agony. "Lie to me again and the next one goes between your eyes."

"I'm telling the truth! I haven't spoken with Toni in months!"

"I'm disappointed." She raised the gun to his face, but Cesar quickly raised his hands.

"Wait! Wait, wait, wait!"

"Last words?"

"I-I might know where you can find her!"

"Where?"

"F-f-first, I need your word that you will let me live!"

"Talk first, then I decide."

He gulped hard. "Last I heard, she runs an op out of a high-end nightclub in Athens; you'll find her there. That's all I know, I swear! Please! Please…" And the man broke down, clutching at his mangled leg, weeping in his native tongue.

Sydney holstered her gun and nodded at Sark. "Pack your bags. We're going to Greece."


	6. Forgive Me

**VI. FORGIVE ME**

**Athens, Greece**

When the bouncer guarding the nightclub demanded their invitation, Sydney noticed Sark slip what looked like a 200 euro note into his hand. Done deal, fast access, front of the line, easy admission. And just like that, it was like any other seedy Covenant assignment all over again. How conventional. Where was the challenge? The thrill? The originality?

The hand that shot out to squeeze her rear certainly wasn't original but before she could react, Sark had grabbed the offender and roughly shoved the man away. A tinkle of laughter spilled from her lips, her amusement stemming from the surprise of Sark attempting something as archaic as defending her honor. Oh, the irony.

As a testament to the wholly unoriginal blueprint for the night, another set of bodyguards blocked their way to the VIP entrance of the club.

Sydney walked directly up to the largest guard. "We're here for Toni Cummings."

"Miss Cummings isn't seeing clients right now."

"Tell her Julian Sark wants to see her."

As they breezed easily through the VIP section, she murmured to Sark in a low voice, "Remember our deal. One wrong move—"

"The implication that I'm somehow set to double cross you is wrong and unfair," Sark interrupted. "You needn't worry. I'm a man of my word, Sydney, and I intend to see this through just as you asked." He sealed the reminder with what he clearly considered to be a winning smile, one that she was loathe to return.

Wealthy and sophisticated as she was, Toni Cummings didn't even stand to greet the pair of them as they advanced, but she did allow Sark to kiss her twice on each cheek. "Julian Sark," she purred beneath a thick curtain of impressively long eyelashes. "It's been too long."

"Toni, you look exquisite," he returned just as amiably. "This is an old friend of mine, Sydney."

Cummings extended her an ornately decorated hand. "Pleasure."

Sydney stared, unsure whether she was meant to kiss it or shake it.

"I must admit," mused Sark, appraising the high end club with an appreciative eye, "this is one of the most impressive operations I've seen. You've done quite well for yourself."

"You know me, Julian," Cummings answered with a surreptitious wink. "My work is good."

"Yes, I remember," he grinned. "You're _unbelievably _good—"

Sydney ground one of her stilettos sharply against his toe.

Unaware of the exchange, Cummings continued, "You changed your hair."

"It wasn't a matter of choice," replied Sark resentfully, massaging his foot against the back of his leg. "I was in U.S. custody, as I thought you were. When were you released?"

"Now _that's _a good story—"

"Yes, I'd love to hear it," drawled Sydney, bored with the banter. "The way I understand it, you were facing some fairly serious charges pending your sentence, so tell me: how does one go from two life sentences without parole to a free woman?"

"What's it to you?"

"Call it professional curiosity."

Cummings sized her up with a scornful stare. "I made a deal."

"What kind of deal?"

"I'm an entrepreneur. What my clients want, I am willing to procure for them…for a price."

"Ever procure anything as rare as the Doleac Agenda?"

Toni Cummings froze, her champagne glass halfway to her lips. Then, "The Doleac Agenda?" she repeated casually.

"Mm-hmm," smiled Sydney sweetly, leaning satisfactorily on Sark's outstretched arm. "You must've heard of it. It's like a playbook of the Covenant's day-to-day operations and key players. Not the kind of information you want in the wrong hands."

"And what does a pretty girl like you know about the Covenant?"

"I know they wouldn't smile too kindly on the person who sold that information to the CIA."

"_Who _did you say you were again?"

"She's with me," piped up Sark, looking thoroughly entertained by the exchange.

Sydney leaned forward, eschewing all semblance of pleasantries. "I have a message for you from McKenas Cole."

Immediately, a flash of understanding dawned on the other woman's face. "I _knew _I recognized you from somewhere!" she laughed. "Sydney Bristow. Damn, I've heard about you during my stay in federal custody: the CIA agent resurrected from the dead. And now you're what, running jobs for McKenas Cole? You've fallen a long way from glory, girl." She gestured for her security guards. "Check them both."

A vice-like grip around her elbow yanked her roughly to her feet.

"Easy!" came the disgruntled grunt from Sark as he was similarly hauled to his feet.

A pair of hands pawed their way down her body, easily finding the sidearm tucked into her waistband. "He's clean. The girl had this," the guard said, tossing Toni the weapon.

Cummings turned the Beretta over in her palm, indignant. "A semi?" she scoffed. "That's it? I'm insulted. You want to come at me, you got to come with more firepower than that!"

Sydney's lips curled into a sneer. "I'm not afraid of you."

The crystal on her chandelier earrings glittered in the low light as Cummings threw back her head and laughed. "That's because you're a child! You think you're invincible! But Covenant or not, you think you can walk into _my _club on _my _time and scare me with your tough girl façade?"

"I do."

Cummings backhanded her smartly in the face, one of the larger rings on her knuckles catching her upper lip. Sydney wiped her mouth deliberately with her fingertips, tempted to respond with her own cliché: a bloody spit to the face.

"Look around," continued Cummings. "You'll see two councilmen, a union official, a few off-duty cops, and Argentine Intelligence. Now, I wouldn't have a second's hesitation about ordering my men to blow your head off right here, right now in front of them. You know why that is, girl? That's _power_. That's power you can't buy, power _you'll_ never understand. So tell McKenas Cole the next time he wants to deliver a message, he better deliver it himself."

"Fair enough," murmured Sydney, groping the table behind her for a glass. "But I have a counteroffer."

"Oh, yeah? What's that?"

Gripping what felt like the stem of a champagne glass, she shattered it on the table and sliced the jagged edge across the other woman's throat, catching her directly in the carotid artery. Even as Toni Cummings' dark hands floundered in vain to her throat, Sydney knew the woman was as good as dead.

One of the guards swung his weapon her direction but she took the him out easily enough with a fist to the ribs and an elbow to the underside of his chin, snapping his head backward. She felt a strange—almost gleeful—satisfaction as she watched his body fall heavily to the ground, lifeless. Beside her, Sark had already managed to immobilize his own guard with an expertly controlled choke hold.

"Thanks," panted Sydney, fighting to control her grin as she retrieved her original sidearm from the unconscious guard.

Sark bent to place three fingers to Cummings' neck. "When you said you needed my help getting access to Toni Cummings, you never told me this was why!"

"Sorry," she continued to pant heavily, high from the adrenaline. "Strictly need to know."

"She could have been an asset!"

"An asset for you in ways that don't interest me."

Sark opened his mouth to retort but his words were drowned out by an unexpected _pop! pop! pop!_ of gunfire. Survival instincts sent her sprawling face first on the ground, the acrid smell of bullets whizzing dangerously close overheard confirming those instincts.

A sharp yank on her belt loop caused her to yelp, but it was just Sark wrenching her to her feet. "Stay low!" he ordered unnecessarily.

Sydney fired a few erratic shots into the air as they ran, hoping it would serve as adequate cover fire. Even still, she felt the hairs on the nape of her neck rising expectantly as if at any moment the next offending bullet would find its way through the back of her skull.

They burst outside through the emergency exits and took off running like sprinters at the first gunshot but even with the adrenaline pumping through her veins, Sark wasn't the one sprinting in four-inch heels. At some point, noticing she trailed behind, he looked over his shoulder and slowed.

"Go!" she shouted furiously, waving him forward. "Go, go, go!"

But as they rounded the next corner, a dark figure stepped out ready and waiting. The crack of the baton caught Sark directly in the chest, the blow so powerful that he nearly folded in half before he hit the ground flat on his back, immobile.

Sydney floundered wildly to a stop and turned to run the other direction.

"_Sydney!"_

The familiar voice was enough to stop her dead in her tracks.

"Drop the weapon."

Panting hard, she turned the gun over in her palm.

"Sydney—"

She tossed it aside.

"Good. Now, turn around. _Slowly_."

She swallowed hard, steeling herself for the confrontation. Ever so deliberately, she pivoted slowly on her heel with her hands raised above her shoulders.

"Oh, Syd," Eric Weiss whispered, anguished.

The involuntary note of grief in his voice broke through to her in a most unexpected way. "It's not what you think," she said quietly, too ashamed to meet the CIA agent's gaze.

But he was shaking his head. "Syd, you gotta know no one wants to believe you more than me, but put yourself in my position. What would you do? What would you think?"

Certainly no easy answer for that one.

Weiss inched forward to kick her gun out of reach. "Where's Toni Cummings?"

"She's dead."

"_What?_ How?"

For the first time, Sydney raised her head and looked her beloved friend square in the eye. "I killed her."

Weiss swore loudly. "Damn it, Sydney, what's wrong with you?"

No easy answer for that one either.

"All right," he continued, inching forward once more. "All right. Against the wall. On your knees, hands behind your head."

But Sydney lowered her hands. "You know I can't do that."

Weiss leveled the gun at her chest. "Against the wall, on your knees! Hands behind your head!"

"What are you going to do, Weiss?" she asked quietly, moving forward. "Shoot me?"

"I'm not screwing around!"

"Neither am I."

"Stop!"

"I'm not going to hurt you—"

"—stop—"

"I don't want to hurt you—"

_"I said stay where you are!"_

She was so near to the gun now that she could have easily knocked it from his hand and overpowered him. In fact, every instinct she had screamed at her to do it. Suppressing that urge, she kept her hands at her side—palms out—as an expression of good behavior. The gun lowered a fraction of an inch.

And then the sound of the single gunshot.

A dry, raspy croak hit the back of her throat and Sydney realized her mouth was open in a silent scream. Nauseated, she looked down and passed trembling fingers over her chest. Nothing. Not a trickle of blood. But that had to mean—

Horrified, she looked to Weiss, whose eyes were now startled and unfocused. His lips moved to form a word—one single word that he couldn't quite complete—but then his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he slumped to the ground, motionless.

Dazed, Sydney looked up.

Sark. "You're welcome."

He continued to stare at her and even though she knew he was expecting some show of gratitude from her, she had none to give. Instead, she dropped heavily beside Weiss's body and placed two trembling fingers to his neck.

"Sydney, we need to leave," said Sark sharply. "We can't stay here."

There was a pulse. It was weak, but there was a pulse.

"_Sydney, now._"

She bent low and cradled Weiss's head in her arms. "Forgive me," she whispered in his ear.


	7. Bad Moon Rising

**VII. BAD MOON RISING**

The overwhelmingly monstrous off-road vehicle had ostensibly appeared from nowhere.

One moment, Sark was idly cruising the winding country-side road in his opulent M3 convertible. The next moment a colossal four-by-four was all but engulfing his precious luxury vehicle. He lazily motioned in the air for the driver to pass him on the left, but the car only inched closer to his rear bumper.

A precarious turn in the road did not deter the offending driver. On the contrary, the vehicle swerved into the lane beside his and accelerated to keep pace.

Quite the daring move into oncoming traffic—rather than being irritated, he was intrigued. Who would risk such a dangerous maneuver for his attention?

He found out soon enough.

The vehicle, already unnervingly close to his, suddenly swerved hard to the right, forcing his car off the road. Dust clouds billowed from the ground as the offending vehicle followed him to the turnabout, screeching to a halt and blocking his way. The driver side door opened and footsteps trudged around the front of the vehicle. Sark followed suit, unsurprised.

"Sydney," he greeted the woman cordially as she approached. "Your reputation for hospitality is fast becoming legend."

Sydney ignored this. "We need to talk," she said, her keen brown eyes hidden by a pair of dark sunglasses.

Vestiges of a smirk played on the corners of his lips. "Are you here to wish me congratulations on our success in Greece? Or are you merely concerned I might reveal to the Covenant that your loyalties to the CIA aren't nearly as disengaged as they believe?"

If his comment unnerved her, she was surprisingly adept at hiding it. "I came to offer you a deal."

Sark raised an eyebrow. "What sort of deal?"

Before she could reply, another vehicle pulled off the road alongside them and a middle-aged man bounded from the car. "Is everything all right?" he shouted.

"We're fine," assured Sark, exasperated with his concern.

"I saw your emergency lights," the man explained, drawing nearer, "and I thought—"

Sydney drew her gun, pointed it at the man, and barked, "Get back in your vehicle."

As the man scrambled away, Sark couldn't help but regard Sydney with a renewed sense of admiration. "Impressive," he remarked appreciatively.

Again, she ignored him. "I came to offer you a deal," she repeated.

"After that stunt you just performed, you have my undivided attention," he smiled.

"You and I are in a similar situation."

"Enlighten me."

"The Covenant. You and I are both expected to carry out orders without knowing exactly how or why we're doing so. That might've been acceptable in the past, but it's not acceptable anymore. I've kept this entire operation together while being expected to behave just like any other pawn, and I'm tired of it."

He narrowed his eyes. "So what exactly do you propose?"

"To stage a coup. I know three cell leaders, you know the other three. I propose we eliminate them all. Once we eliminate all six cell leaders, we force a meet with the head of Covenant operations. Each cell leader wears a watch containing access keys to their respective headquarters. Under the threat that the Covenant doesn't comply with our demands, the keys will be handed over to the CIA."

Impressive_. _The woman had nerve. "An exceptional plan," he admitted, "although you seem to have overlooked one minor detail."

Sydney lifted her chin defiantly. "And what's that?"

"I'm afraid I see no upside to my involvement. Really, Sydney, you can't possibly boast such high expectations of me," he laughed. "I would help you cripple Covenant leadership, of course, but as always there must be something for me in return. My employers pay me an exorbitant amount of money for my services, which is little incentive for me to jeopardize an otherwise favorable arrangement with them. So while I am flattered by your charming business proposition, I'm afraid I must decline. Pity," he added slyly, giving her a lingering once over. "I do applaud your style."

"What if I can give you an incentive?"

"Pardon?"

"What if I could make it worth your while?"

He grinned immediately, his thoughts already spiraling a thousand different directions. "There's precious little you can offer me, Sydney, but what forms of payment I _would _accept from you I'm rather inclined to believe you would be loathe to give."

Part of him expected her to crack another one her infamous right hooks at his jaw, but she surprised him. A slow smile creased her lips as she cocked her head to the side at him—an uncharacteristically condescending look on her. "How about 800 million in gold bullion?"

"I wasn't aware you had anywhere near that amount in your nest egg."

"It belongs to _you_."

That took him by surprise and he didn't mind showing it. "You're serious," he mused out loud, more statement than question.

"Eight months ago, the Covenant picked up a memorandum reporting the murder of a Russian diplomat by the name of Andrian Lazarey. Evidence indicates Lazarey was a descendant of the Romanov royal family in Russia. The money was in his trust when he died. It went to you. His son."

Sark knew she would be expecting a reaction from him, but he had none to give. The man meant nothing to him, after all. But—"Why haven't I been made aware of this inheritance before?"

"Because the Covenant doesn't want you to have it," she simpered, slowly encircling him like a cat stalking its prey. "Because they've already been helping themselves to your money without your knowledge. Why else do you think they arranged for your release from federal custody? Did you think you've become a key player? A rising star in their eyes? You're nothing but a pawn, Sark. Lower than a foot soldier. They've been using you to bankroll their entire operation for months and you haven't even noticed."

Sark couldn't decide if he was more rattled by her words or by the feel of her warm breath in his ear. _"_Your skills of persuasion are impeccable, Sydney," he said finally. "I must admit when we first met in Denpasar, even I wasn't aware you were capable of such cunning."

She was smug now, satisfied. "Contact me when you've obtained your access keys. We'll then go to St. Petersburg together to present our offer to the head of Covenant operations."

He looked down at her outstretched hand. "Agreed," he said, grasping her hand.

* * *

It was almost too good to be true.

Sydney felt elated, high. Either Sark was more foolishly naïve than she thought or she herself was just that good.

Surely, he above all people should've suspected her motives being different than what they were. While it remained true she needed his help to overthrow the six cell leaders, the sheer idea that she would hold that as collateral to force her ascension within the Covenant was simply laughable. Even _she_ had been hard pressed thinking of a way to present that absurd idea to Sark.

Because no rational person should ever believe someone in her situation would seek a more prominent association within the Covenant.

Especially not after what happened to Eric Weiss.

As Sydney settled herself more comfortably in the bathtub of her simple, one-story flat, she replayed the morning's conversation through her head one more time with increasing relish and—dare she think it?—glee. It was a touch pathetic, really, how easily Sark was allowing himself to be manipulated.

And yet, shouldn't she find this a bit disturbing? At the very least, shouldn't it be cause for alarm to realize how naturally the duplicity rolled off her skin? Like it was a part of her, like she'd been born into it?

The end might justify the means, but when had she started stooping to such paltry means as conniving, shameless manipulation? The word itself generated immediate connotations of evil like Arvin Sloane, and it perturbed her to wonder if she's becoming the very darkness she swore to fight.

_Occupational hazard. I'll be careful. _

But the danger was already there, and it was real, and it was palpable, and it had now become the physical manifestation of her reality.

The unexpected chirping of her cellular phone startled her. So absorbed was she with her troubled deliberations that she brought the phone to her ear without even thinking.

"_Sydney?"_

She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and swore. It was her father, Jack Bristow.

"_Sydney? Are you there?"_

Very carefully, she uncovered the mouthpiece and raised the phone to her ear, listening.

"_Sydney, please, I know you're there…please, I…I need to hear your voice…I miss you."_

A stabbing pain seared through her chest and she clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle the sounds of her strangled breathing. Not a man of many words, she knew full well what this vulnerable show of emotions must be costing her father.

"_I know you're listening…if you're there…I want you to know that I love—"_

But she slapped the phone shut.

Because for the first time, her steady resolve almost failed her.

Because for the first time, her unwavering determination to take down the Covenant was shaken.

Because for the first time in two years, she didn't want to be a double agent anymore. She didn't want to be hunted by the federal government, and she didn't want to be burdened by the weight of the world on her shoulders.

All she wanted was to be a little girl again and wrap her arms around her daddy's neck while he rocked her to sleep.


	8. For the Bubbly, Of Course

**VIII. FOR THE BUBBLY, OF COURSE**

**St. Petersburg, Russia**

Silence, broken only by the sounds customary of a late-night dinner club: the posh lull of classical music. The scratching of a serrated knife being scraped against a plate. The high-pitched pop of a champagne cork relieved of its pressure. All sounds that could be heard at any restaurant, any lounge. But there was something unnerving about this one, something unsettling.

A server offered her a courtesy bottle of champagne but Sydney ignored it, too keyed up to drink. At every approaching set of footsteps she jerked upright, only to sink back down when the person passed her by. So she kept her eyes lowered, her movements short and as undistinguished as possible.

"Ah, Sydney Bristow!" exulted an all-too familiar voice. "And right on time!"

Slowly, she raised her head. "McKenas."

"Were you expecting someone else?"

Sydney cast a wary look side-to-side, unnerved. "You're the head of Covenant operations?"

His booming laugh drew neighboring stares. "That would be quite a story, wouldn't it? No, sweetheart, I'm not, but I _will _be the senior-most representative you'll be speaking with today, so anything you say to the big boss you can say to me."

She tensed. That was it? Now the floor was hers?

"I assume you _do_ have something to say," prompted McKenas Cole in the silence.

Sydney hesitated. "I have an offer to make—"

"It wouldn't, by chance, have anything to do with the six cell leaders you wiped out, would it? I know, I know," he added as she flinched, "it's amazing, the stuff I hear. Now, what do you propose we do about that? The fact that you murdered our cell leaders, I mean."

A pregnant pause. Then, "I assume you're smart enough to know that I was acting in the Covenant's best interests."

Another booming laugh. "You're a woman after my own heart, Syd," grinned Cole, surveying her with a maddening air of admiration. "In fact, I have a present for you. _V__oilà_! Look familiar?"

Sydney winced. In his hand was the watch she'd stolen from the Covenant cell leader in Nova Scotia.

"And…" he fished in his pocket, "two more! And two more after that…and one last one. Did I just blow your mind or what?"

All six access keys from all six Covenant cell leaders.

Sydney leaped to her feet, gripping the gun tucked beneath her waistband and attracting not a few curious stares in the process.

"Come on, Syd, don't do that," Cole scolded, rising as well and holding out both hands to her in a deceiving gesture of calm. "I can see that you're scared, but you know what? I'm telling you right now that you don't need to be scared! Does she, Mr. Sark?"

She didn't understand at first—the pieces were tumbling apart too fast and garbled for her to keep up. But then she saw Sark stroll idly forward and take his place at Cole's right hand.

"See," continued Cole, clapping him on the shoulder like a son, "when you first pitched your clever little scheme to Mr. Sark, he gave me a call. Truth of the matter is, you two had my double thumbs up from the get-go. Why? Because the CIA has the Doleac Agenda, meaning they had the names of all our cell leaders. You just made my life so much easier because those names are now irrelevant."

Slowly—reluctantly—she uncoiled her fingers from the handle of her gun. "I thought that would be the best move," she lied haltingly as they all took their seats again.

"You're cockier than I am, sweetheart," Cole grinned. "That's why I can't _wait_ to see you two kids together!"

"Am I missing something?" she asked stiffly.

"I'm promoting you! Both of you, actually. I was so impressed by the work you two pulled these past weeks that you're going to continue working together. Congratulations, babe: you and Julian just became the leaders of our new North American cell."

Sydney chanced half a glance at Sark, who was already eyeing her closely. "That's…good news," she said flatly.

"I knew you'd like that. No place like home, right? Well, click your heels, Dorothy: I've already got a slew of new assignment for you. Mr. Sark here can fill you in on the details. Before you know it you'll be well on your way to Oz. I better leave you two at it, then," Cole added, heaving laboriously to his feet. "You have things to do, I'm sure. Things to discuss. Sights to see." He clapped Sark on the shoulder one last time and offered Sydney a distasteful sort of mock salute.

As soon as he left, Sark turned to her with a maddening expression of polite disinterest. "Well, Sydney, I suppose a congratulations is in order—"

But Sydney stood up so fast that the back of her knees hit the chair, knocking it over with a conspicuous _bang! _A low hum of disapproving murmurs and stares followed her from the room and she increased her pace, hastily putting as much distance between them and her as possible.

The moment she stepped outside, she was slapped unexpectedly in the face by the sting of the cold night air. Pulling her coat higher up her neck, she began walking.

Sark's hand on her elbow whipped her around but she was ready and waiting. "We had a deal," she spat at him.

"Yes."

"You never intended to follow through with it, did you?"

Sark appeared to consider this for a brief moment. "No. No, I did not."

She looked away, disgusted.

"Really, Sydney, you needn't look so shocked. You couldn't possibly have such low expectations of me. Now, with regards to your previous offer: you'll be happy to learn the Covenant has agreed to restore my 800 million in full, provided I do something for them in return. It looks as if I won't be requiring your services after all."

"Why the charade?" she managed through a locked jaw. "If you were never planning to cooperate, why play along at all?"

He smiled, the image insidious. "For the bubbly, of course," he said, raising the champagne to his lips.

Sydney knocked the bottle from his hand. The glass shattered on the cold concrete, spraying them both with the last of the expensive alcohol.

Sark grew somber, calmly wiping the spilled beverage from his chin. "That was an '82 Château Pétrus," he said quietly.

"Like I give a shit," she snarled.

Sark raised an eyebrow. "Something vexes you."

_"Something vexes me?" _she repeated, incredulous. "What is that, another vague description of events so you can sleep better at night?"

"There is one way for you to verify whether my nocturnal activities are suspect or not, but somehow I think you would prefer the mystery."

What little vestige of self-control she had left was fast ebbing away. "You think this is some sort of game?" she hissed, taking an involuntary step forward.

"Hardly. On the contrary, I see it as a business opportunity. Even you must admit that given what I knew, I managed to broker a pretty lucrative deal for myself—"

"Then you're an idiot and a fool," she interrupted coldly. "Let me tell you a little something about the Covenant: _they will disappoint you_. And one day—and I hope to God I'm there when that day happens—you will hate them."

Finally, a crack in his impenetrable, cool exterior. Sark's liquid blue eyes narrowed imperceptibly, hardening into pools of gray. "I understand you're not inclined to believe a word I say, Sydney, but the Covenant has given me the opportunity of a lifetime and I don't intend to squander it."

Even she was surprised at the dry, scathing laughter that spilled from her lips. "You're pathetic," she scorned, hitting each syllable with as much contempt as she could muster. "I can't believe I overestimated your intelligence—you _actually_ think you've earned their trust! As if they wouldn't hesitate to trade your life for a profit in a heartbeat! You spent the last two years in CIA custody, working with the U.S. government to betray one of your former organizations. It doesn't really instill much faith in your loyalties."

"My past infidelities are just that: mistakes I've learned from, paid for with two years spent in a federal penitentiary."

"You know what I think? I think you're just a dog looking for a new master."

If Sydney's own self-control hadn't been spiraling out of reach, she might have foreseen Sark's tear away with a violent snap.

The next sound was the liquid gurgling of someone gasping for breath. Sark had shoved her against the wall with alarming speed, his fingers tensed and gripped around her throat. With his other hand, he ripped the gun from her waistband and dug the barrel into her chin.

Sark's fists clenched. "You know what I think?"

A throbbing heat rushed to her face and she choked, her feet slipping beneath her as he tightened his hold on her throat.

"You know what _I_ think? I think the reason you're so upset is because you can't bear to accept that I've outsmarted you at your own game. I think it burns you that for the first time in your miserable existence, you're the only person in the room left without a chair when the music's stopped."

Sydney's body was racked with shudders, close to passing out. Just when it seemed the lack of oxygen to her brain had reached a final, unbearable blip, Sark released her and her body came crashing to the floor.

"I've never lied to you, Sydney," he said grimly, towering above her as she choked and gasped for air. "You know why? Because it doesn't serve me. We're both professionals. We have both the will and the means to follow through. When we don't, our employers aren't happy and when they're not, we suffer and our lives go to hell. And that's not going to happen, is it?"

Sydney massaged her throat, eyeing the gun in his hand with sullen wariness. "No," she croaked, the effort burning her throat.

Sark crouched before her, offering her the gun handle-side out. "Excellent, because as the two newest cell leaders, it pleases me to inform you I look forward to working with you. We leave for Los Angeles in four hours."


	9. You Threw Your Beeper in the Pacific

**Title: **Silent Teardrops

**Chapter 9: **Bella Notte

**Disclaimer: **This story is for entertainment purposes only. The characters herein are the property of J.J. Abrams, Touchstone Television, and Bad Robot.

* * *

**LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA**

Dusk was soon approaching by the time a car pulled into the driveway of the tasteful, two-story house and Sydney bolted upright in her seat—there was no mistaking Michael Vaughn behind the wheel. Before her nerves—and common sense—had time to convince her otherwise, she kicked open her door and started across the street with steely resolve. His name was on the tip of her tongue when she stopped dead in her tracks.

Vaughn had circled around the passenger's side to open the door for a slender, blonde-haired woman that Sydney immediately recognized from photographs as Lauren Reed, his new wife. "—nose-bleed seats, and all you can talk about is the Zamboni!" he was grumbling good-naturedly as he assisted her from the car.

"I loved the Zamboni," defended Lauren, allowing him to drape her unnecessary fur coat over his arm.

"The Zamboni was your favorite part?"

"The Zamboni is a close second. Coming home with you after the game is my favorite part—"

Sydney whirled away—afraid she was going to be sick—but not before she saw the woman wrap her arms around Vaughn and pull him close for a tender kiss. A strange, prickling sensation burned at the corners of her eyes and Sydney jogged back to the car, noisily slamming the door behind her.

Vaughn broke away and looked up at the sound. She saw him peer curiously at her in the dark for a few brief seconds before his eyes widened in a rushing dawn of recognition. "_Sydney?_"

It infuriated her somehow to hear his voice give breath to her name like that, and that anger pulsed through her blood like fire, giving her strength. Slamming the gears into "drive," she released the emergency brake and gunned the accelerator to the floor. By the time Vaughn had sprinted down the driveway, she was already more than halfway down the street and not looking back.

* * *

"What can I get you?"

"Scotch and soda. On second thought, hold the soda and double the scotch, straight up."

"I've seen you in here every night so far. Long week, huh?"

Sark grimaced. "Something of that nature, yes."

"First time in Los Angeles?" the bartender asked, making friendly conversation as he poured three inches of whiskey into a glass tumbler.

"Not exactly," he snorted, trying not to think about the irony of that. "Relocated. New job."

"Let me guess, not a fan of your new boss."

"My employers aren't the problem. It's my new co-worker. This woman—"

"Ah, there's a _woman_," the bartender chuckled sympathetically, sliding him his drink. "Say no more, buddy. This one's on me."

"Cheers," muttered Sark.

* * *

"License, please."

Sydney extended the card lazily out the window between two slender figures, but not before stealing a quick peek to refresh her memory of the alias on the identification.

She blinked, cringing, as the CHP officer shone his flashlight first on the license, then on her face. "Kate Jones?"

"That's what it says on the I.D.," she smiled sweetly, offering him a surreptitious wink.

"You have any idea how fast you were speeding, Miss Jones?"

"Sorry, officer," she affected with a stricken sort of pout. "I'm kind of having a bad night."

"Stay in the car, please."

Sydney waited patiently while the officer paced the length of her car, aiming his light carefully inside the interior before circling at last to the rear of the vehicle. Deciding to go on the offensive, she opened her door and stepped onto the asphalt.

"Ma'am, I need you to stay in the car," the officer warned sternly, swinging the light back to her face.

Holding both palms out to signify her cooperation, she slid obediently back behind the wheel. After checking that he was busy on his radio, she carefully removed a semiautomatic from the glove compartment and casually covered it with a jacket over her lap.

She looked up as the steady crunch of footsteps made their way back to her driver's side window. "May I see the registration on this vehicle, please?"

She blinked innocently. "Why?"

"Standard procedure, ma'am."

A silly, girlish sort of giggle burst from her lips. "Okay," grinned Sydney bashfully, tucking a thin strand of hair behind her ear, "see, you're not going to believe this, but I accidentally lost my registration just the other day. Total accident; I'm such a ditz."

"Miss, are you aware the plates for this vehicle were reported stolen earlier this morning?"

"What?" she gasped, her eyes widening. "Oh, gosh, how is that even possible? Well, clearly that's a mistake, right? I mean, here I am, you know? There's no problem."

He narrowed his eyes at her suspiciously and aimed the light directly in her face. This time, she did not cringe. "Stay in the vehicle," he repeated, beginning to move away.

But this time, Sydney's hand shot out in the dark and snagged his wrist. "Listen, officer, I'm _really _having a bad night," she sneered in a low voice, her tone immediately losing its girlish innocence, "so I'd appreciate it if you would just let this go."

The officer broke her hold easily and withdrew his sidearm from its holster, correctly registering her abrupt change in temperament. "All right, I need you to put both hands on the wheel, both hands where I can see them!" he barked harshly. "Slowly!"

Sydney lowered her eyes to her lap, reaching beneath her jacket until her fingers gripped the cold steel of her gun. Sighing, she murmured quietly, "I really wish you wouldn't make me do that…"

* * *

Sark flagged down the bartender for another drink, all the while doing his best to tolerate the alluringly beautiful woman at his side. Under normal circumstances he might have appreciated the flattering attention she was affording him, but unfortunately for her he did not find her nearly as engaging tonight.

"So," she piped up, snagging his elbow in a futile attempt to hold his attention and nearly screeching to make herself audible above the booming music, "where did you say you were from?"

"Some place I'm trying to forget," he replied shortly, preparing to throw his drink down the back of his throat, but the girl removed the glass from his hand and set it back on the bar counter.

"Me, too," she purred before sliding her hands around his neck and slipping her tongue into his mouth.

She tasted of whiskey and cigarettes—all together not a completely disagreeable flavor. Warm fingers roamed freely along the ridges of his chest, but as her talons traced an unusually prominent scar along his collar bone, he stiffened.

It was enough to make the girl pull away, distracted. "What _is_ that?" she asked curiously, fingering the burn mark.

"A birthmark," he lied curtly.

"It's pretty big for a birthmark," the girl persisted, pulling back the collar of his shirt for a closer look.

Sark wrenched away her hand, his grip taut around her wrist. "Don't," he warned.

"_Ouch!_" the girl yelped in pain, yanking her hand free and massaging her wrist. "That _hurt_! Jerk." She shot him one last disgusted look before storming away.

Observing the peculiar interaction, the bartender sidled over and leaned across the counter. "What's the deal, man?" he asked with a laugh, nodding at the retreating young woman. "Every night you roll in here with a babe, but you always leave empty-handed. What are you, some kind of monk or something?"

Sark snorted, unamused. "What's the point of starting something if it's just going to end badly?" he called bitterly as he slapped down another $100 bill.

* * *

"Hello, Sydney."

Sydney jerked to attention, thoroughly startled to see none other than Jack Bristow easing onto the bench behind her so that they were sitting back-to-back. "Dad," she breathed finally, not bothering to hide her wary surprise. "How did you—?"

"I've been monitoring the police frequencies for some time," rumbled her father's deep, gravelly voice, "hoping that maybe someday…and then I recognized your alias, Kate Jones."

Even Sydney had to offer a sad sort of smile at that. "It was the alias that started it all, remember? It only seemed fitting to use it one last time. But what I meant before was how did you find me here?"

"Vaughn. He said I might find you at the—"

"—at the train station," she finished, her strained smile slowly fading.

"Normal people going to their normal jobs."

"I can't believe he remembered that."

"I almost didn't believe him when he told me that he saw you tonight."

She kicked glumly at the floor, tracing the tiles with her toe. "Then I suppose you also know that the CHP officer who pulled me over tonight is dead."

"It took some convincing for me to believe that too, yes."

For the second time that night, she felt her eyes water with tears but this time, she didn't try to stop them. "So much has changed," she croaked hoarsely, her voice breaking at the end. "_I've _changed. Dad, I don't know if I can explain what it's like, having everything be different. You were gone, Will's gone, Vaughn's married—"

"Is that why you arranged for my release from NSC custody?"

Glad that her father couldn't see her grief, Sydney bent at the waist and lowered her head to her knees. "I couldn't let you stay there," she whispered to the ground, tears of shame dripping slowly off the end of her nose. "I couldn't bear the thought of you locked in a federal penitentiary for all those years."

"Thank you," murmured Jack gruffly at last after a lengthy pause. "That was…kind."

Clearing her throat, Sydney straightened to her full height. "I should go," she announced, swiping roughly at the moisture on her face.

Jack rose quickly to his feet. "Wait. You can't keep running."

"And what, you came here to stop me?"

"No," he countered firmly, "I came here to _help _you."

It was the absolute worst thing to say. Even as Sydney deliberately swiveled on her heel, she felt the familiar block of ice immediately cocoon itself around her chest, blocking her emotions and damning her guilt and shame to the rear of her consciousness. And the transformation was instantaneous, as easy as breathing.

"I don't need your help," she bit coldly, enunciating each syllable with scornful disdain.

"That's the exact thinking that will get you _killed_," he returned gravely, standing his ground.

"I'll take my chances."

"You can't do this alone!"

Subtle movement outside the window caught her eye unexpectedly, and all at once she became consciously aware of just how mysteriously empty the train station really was. "But we're _not_ alone, are we?" she whispered sharply, her entire body beginning to tremble with the sting of betrayal.

"Listen to me," Jack began earnestly, taking an impulsive step forward, "you need to turn yourself in!"

But Sydney withdrew her weapon, stopping him in his tracks. "Who did you tell I was here, _Dad?"_ she spat, peering out the window. "Looks like an entire CIA tac team out there! Let me guess, your job in this op was to stall me until they arrived."

"Sydney, you need help," her father maintained stiffly through a locked jaw, never taking his eyes off the gun.

She began to laugh, finally feeling the hysterics begin to grip control. "You know, you're the second person today to tell me what they think I need to do_."_

"Sydney—"

"Stop following me. Stop trying to help me, stop calling me, and stop trying to save me because_ I_ _don't want to be saved._"

And with that, she pistol-whipped Jack Bristow into unconsciousness.

* * *

Night was falling.

Rich depths of blue clashed brilliantly with streaks of pink and golden yellow. The last dying rays of the setting sun skimmed the surface of the Pacific, dazzling spectacularly for a few momentary minutes before disappearing behind the horizon. A light wind picked up, scattering the thick layer of clouds and opening a clear pathway to the heavens. Dotting the sky were tiny glimmers of light twinkling merrily against the inky black darkness.

It was a beautiful night.

Julian Sark strolled the length of the Santa Monica pier with his hands deep in his pockets, the collar of his thick leather jacket turned up high against the cold. Just behind him, a breathless transformation from day to night was taking place in one of nature's most spectacular light shows, and he couldn't even will himself to watch it.

"This has been a very long night."

He snapped to attention, unaware of Sydney's presence beside him until now. "Welcome to the club," he quipped. "What's your situation?"

"For starters, I killed a man today."

He shot her a double take. "You're serious."

"Like I said, it's been a long night."

"In that case, I suspect you may need this more than I."

With an amused sort of snort, she accepted the half-empty bottle of vodka that he offered. "What about you?" she asked, sitting on the ground with her knees drawn to the sky. "What brings you here?"

But even as Sark joined her on the soft patch of dirt overlooking the Ferris wheel, he pressed his lips together and shook his head. "As I believe you once stated, that's for me to know and for _you _to…" As he deliberately trailed off, he peeked sideways to see if she'd caught the familiar reference.

Clearly, she had. "You're funny," she cooed. "I didn't realize you were so funny."

But despite her disdain, he smiled privately to himself. She might have countered with worse.

"I saw Vaughn tonight," spoke up Sydney suddenly, dully.

He shot her another double take, his eyes narrowing. "You _what?_"

"Rather, _he_ saw _me_. But that's not all: I also had an unexpected run-in with my father."

"And?"

"And I won't let it happen again."

Sark half opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, realizing he had not the vaguest inclination of what to say. What _does _one say in situations like this? The complexities of female-driven, emotion-based dilemmas escaped him entirely.

She looked at him sharply, expectedly. "What, you're not going to tell me what you think I need to do? That I need to be more careful? That I need help?"

"No, I'm not."

"Why?"

It was all he could do not to shrug. "There's no use arguing the point if you're not going to refute it."

For reasons beyond his understanding, his response seemed to have taken her by surprise. "Well," Sydney muttered at last, tilting the bottle to her lips, "you're the first person to say that to me all day."

As they continued to bathe in the peaceful silence, Sark was struck by the unexpected irony of it all. Strange, really, that he should feel so comforted by her presence, but he was. Soon enough, her deep, steady breathing was the only sound on the pier—like a lullaby hummed to a child, like the whisper of a rocking chair, like the ticking of an old clock when you had nowhere you needed to go.

It was the sound of comfort.

"How do you do it?" spoke up Sydney abruptly. "How do you compartmentalize everything?"

He lifted an eyebrow. "I didn't realize your conscience had been bothering you as of late."

She looked him square in the eye, challenging him. "Who said it was?"

And just like that, the peaceful moment was gone.

"Well," Sark began, his lips twitching, "firstly, you can't allow yourself any attachments."

"Attachments?"

"Emotional attachments," he amended, suddenly serious. "Relationships. Especially on the job. It becomes a limitation, a weakness, a liability easily exploited. We are who we are, Sydney; we can't afford to be more."

"I understand."

"Do you?" She seemed to be deliberately avoiding his gaze at first, but the intensity of his eventually demanded it. "Because you have to bury it. Everything, whatever you feel. Fear, regret, pain, passion, forgiveness—" this time when Sark looked her straight in the eye, she did not turn away, "—because we don't deserve any of it."

"I said I understood," repeated Sydney quietly, looking away.

And that was his cue. Struggling to his feet, Sark gently pried the bottle from her fingers and began the long walk down the pier. He hadn't traveled more than a few paces, however, before he retreated back as an afterthought. "Do you need a ride somewhere?"

"I'll find my own way."

"Fair enough." He offered her the bottle again, but this time an imperceptible sort of smile creased her lips as she shook her head.

Night was falling.

Rich depths of deep blue clashed boldly with the inky black darkness. The first beaming rays of a full moon stretched its hand against the surface of the Pacific, glittering spectacularly for a few breathtaking minutes before withdrawing back against the heavens.

It was a beautiful night.

* * *

_Scene credit: Smallville_


	10. The Other Side of Daybreak

**Title: **Silent Teardrops

**Chapter 10: **The Other Side of Daybreak

**Disclaimer: **This story is for entertainment purposes only. The characters herein are the property of J.J. Abrams, Touchstone Television, and Bad Robot.

* * *

**B**A**LTIMO**R**E, MARYLA**N**D**

"They're right behind us!" called Sark above the deafening roar of gunfire, straining to see out the backseat of their vehicle.

"Yes, thank you, I can see that," snapped Sydney through clenched teeth, jerking the steering wheel to the left to avoid running up a curb.

An earsplitting blast and he managed to duck just in time as the rear window exploded into a thousand tiny pieces. With the glass gone from the back of the vehicle, the _pop! pop! pop! _of gunfire roared louder than ever.

"Give me a gun!" he shouted. "I can help!"

"Stay down and shut up," she retorted, appearing to wince as a bullet whizzed dangerously close past her head.

As if their situation wasn't precarious enough already, two sets of headlights—side-by-side and covering both lanes of the road—were now heading directly toward their car. But rather than slow down, Sydney pressed the accelerator to the floor.

"Have you gone mad?" yelped Sark.

"I thought you liked risks."

"I also like my body!"

"Have you heard the phrase 'playing chicken'?"

"Yes, but don't you agree we have more to lose in this situation than they do?"

"We're about to find out."

One of the agents in the oncoming car leaned out the window, gun raised. The first few bullets merely tore a pattern of holes through the windshield, but at the next round of gunshots he heard Sydney cry out in pain. She gave no indication of slowing or swerving, however, and continued to head directly for the two sets of headlights.

The two government-issued vehicles were closing in fast and Sark grit his teeth, bracing his hand against the dashboard. At the last instant, he closed his eyes, fully expecting a massive collision.

But when he opened his eyes, the road was clear. He looked first one way then the other behind him. Both cars had gone off the road, one of them rolling. The original pursuit car was still behind them, and Sark heard more gunfire.

"Take the wheel!"

He did as he was told, lunging for the wheel. At the same time, Sydney clambered from the driver's seat, half hanging out the window as she withdrew a .9mm Beretta from her holster and braced her wrist on the hood of the car.

With the brunt of his concentration focused on his driving, he couldn't actually look to see the mayhem she was causing, but he could most definitely hear it: a steady round of gunfire, then tires squealing, then metal crashing into metal, then an earsplitting explosion that rocked their car.

She climbed back behind the wheel and Sark spun to look out the rear window one last time. The last of the CIA vehicles now lay upside down on the pavement, a mushroom cloud of fire and smoke encircling high above it in the air.

The thrill of adrenaline continued to pump through his veins and Sark felt elated, high. Behind the steering wheel, however, Sydney appeared winded. In fact, as she continued to drive, she seemed to be fighting to merely keep her eyes open. He shot her a double take, watching as her eyelids briefly fluttered shut. At the same time, the car slowly began to drift off the road until she jerked back to attention and hastily corrected the wheel.

It was then that he noticed the steady stream of blood trickling from a wound in her shoulder down to thick pools in her lap. "All right," he said quietly. "Stop the car."

She ignored him.

"Stop the car, now!" He reached for the steering wheel, but Sydney knocked him away.

"Back off!" she barked, leveling her gun at his face.

"Okay," he conceded quietly. "Okay, all right. But you've lost a lot of blood," he continued, warily eyeing her shoulder. "If you don't stop the car right now, you're going to get us both killed."

She remained as she was. Sark shifted forward, but the gun cocked in his ear and suddenly, he was angry.

"Damn it, Sydney, I'm not screwing around!" he snarled.

"Neither am I!" she snapped. "Now sit back and shut up. I'll be fine."

He ground his teeth together in silent fury. But then, Sydney slumped unconscious against the wheel and the car veered off the road entirely. He swore and lunged for the wheel, but it was too late.

There was a deafening crunch as their car blasted through a road barrier and suddenly, they were airborne. But only for a few seconds. The next moment, the entire vehicle had crashed into the water and was sinking fast through the depths of the Chesapeake Bay.

At the first paralyzing onset of freezing cold water, it felt like his very skin was being carved anew by a thousand, razor-sharp knives. Beside him, Sydney was unconscious, locks of her long brown hair floating eerily in the water like slimy strings of seaweed. Her complexion was also alarmingly pale; she'd lost far too much blood already, but he could worry about that later. For now, he hooked an arm around her chest and kicked his way to the surface.

By the time he collapsed wearily on the sand, Sark felt drained, fatigued. After all, it wasn't every day he was chased at, rammed, shot at, and nearly killed. _Occupational hazard, _he supposed_. _He _had _to start reading the fine print better on these job descriptions_…_

His muddy fingers left behind filthy trails of grit and sand as he brushed the hair from Sydney's face, plugged her nose, and clamped his mouth over hers. In the middle of his second set of chest compressions, she suddenly jerked onto her side, choking and gasping and wheezing and coughing.

"Sydney, can you hear me?" he called, ripping back her jacket at the shoulder. The wound was swimming in blood again. "If you can hear me," he continued, tearing the sleeve of his own shirt and wrapping it around her shoulder like a makeshift tourniquet, "you're going to be fine."

But Sydney's eyes were already fluttering shut. "Vaughn?" she murmured sluggishly before slipping into unconsciousness once more.

* * *

It was deep into the blackest part of night before Sydney finally began to break consciousness. The first thing she became aware of upon coming to was a dull pain resonating near her left shoulder. The next thing she felt was a pair of bright, keen eyes watching her intently in the low lighting.

She bolted awake, reflexively tugging the bed sheets up to her neck.

"Re-_lax_, Sydney," rumbled a soft chuckle. "If I had in mind what you were thinking, I would have done it already." The voice came from across the room, from a hidden silhouette that her bleary eyes couldn't quite make out at the moment. But there was no mistaking that voice.

"Sark?"

First, an unintelligible snort of amusement. Then, Sark stepped slowly into view, his arms folded casually across his chest. "Welcome back."

"Where are we?" croaked Sydney, her voice hoarse.

"Nowhere," answered Sark, following her gaze around the unfamiliar cabin, "and that's the truth. Just a nice place for a chat. You've been in and out of consciousness for nearly six hours. I took the liberty of removing the bullet from your shoulder as well as dressing the wound."

"What happened? Where's Bogdan?" She sat up a little straighter, fully expecting to see the man crouched half-hidden in a dark corner of the room.

"Laszlo Bogdan? I wouldn't expect a call from him anytime soon. Captured by the CIA, I'm afraid. I suspect he's occupying my former cell in federal custody even as we speak. It appears he wasn't quite so lucky as you were in our getaway."

Judging by the deliberate formality in his remarks, Sark had clearly decided to hold her and her brazen recklessness responsible for Bogdan's capture. And judging by the shrewd, piercing scrutiny of his gaze, he clearly not only expected her to accept that blame, but also to acknowledge his role in her rescue. Well. She wasn't about to give him the satisfaction.

Determined to regain the upper hand—and her pride—she planted her feet solidly to the floor and teetered gingerly to her feet. "With Laszlo Bogdan out of the picture, we'll need a new team to hire for the job—" she began with steely resolve, but he was quick to cut her off.

"I've already taken the liberty of contacting one of my sources. He's something of an old friend of mine, and he's agreed to a meet at his estate tomorrow in Sevilla."

Sydney stiffened, bristling at his easy nonchalance. "When did you arrange this?"

Sark appeared to be fighting back some sort of self-satisfied smile. "While you were unconscious. After I pulled the bullet from your shoulder."

So much for regaining the upper hand. Or her pride. "Did you get through to the extraction team?" she asked quickly, trying to redirect the subject.

"It's almost impossible to get a signal here but yes, our extraction is secured at 0700," he answered knowingly.

"That's in what, four hours?"

He nodded. "I suggest you rest while you can."

"Surveillance is activated?"

"Motion sensors around the perimeter."

"We should prepare in case the CIA shows up—"

But Sark only shook his head, placating her with an oily superiority like a parent addressing a small child. "The floorboards in the corner lift up. You needn't worry, Sydney," he cajoled soothingly in what he clearly considered to be a reassuring tone. "This safehouse has already saved my life quite a few times. I'm very familiar with it by now. You're safe with me."

But Sydney was far from feeling reassured. She was no fool; she knew when she was being mocked.

"You're welcome, by the way," he added pointedly.

"For what?"

"For saving your life."

Pasting a thin and rather strained smile on her face, she swiveled deliberately on her heel, unsurprised to find Sark standing directly behind her with a maddening expression of supreme satisfaction. "You didn't save my life," she said coolly, lifting her chin a defiant fraction of an inch.

Sark crossed his arms over his chest once more, regaling her with a lazy up-and-down. "Oh?"

"I was fine."

"You didn't seem that way."

"I would've been fine."

"Unconscious at the bottom of the Chesapeake Bay?"

"I don't die that easy."

"You were blue in the face."

"It's a good color on me."

His sudden laughter surprised her. "How I admire your spirit," he chuckled appreciatively. Sydney smirked, coy, but her smile clouded over instantly when Sark dragged the back of his hand patronizingly down her cheek, adding, "But here's some advice from me to you, love: be careful. I might not be there to save you next time."

Somehow, he must have anticipated she would knock his hand away because quick fingers latched themselves around her wrist instead, securing her in a surprisingly strong grip. She tried to shake him off, but his grip held fast. "It infuriates you, doesn't it? Knowing you're indebted to me," he taunted smugly, his keen blue eyes gloating mere inches from hers.

"Here's some advice from me to you," she cooed, boldly holding his gaze. "Never underestimate your opponent."

If possible, Sark only grinned wider, sensing the challenge. "You think you can overpower me?"

"I think you better back the hell away from me unless you want to lose that arm."

"I'll take my chances. Besides—" Sark tugged sharply on her wrist, pulling her almost flush against his chest, "—I'm bigger than you."

"Maybe so…" she whispered, not missing the way his eyes darted imperceptibly to her lips. She tilted her chin up ever so slightly, the seemingly innocent maneuver making him freeze.

That brief moment of distraction was all she needed. In one blurred movement, Sydney wrenched his arm mercilessly behind his back, using increasing pressure on his twisted elbow to force him on his knees. "…but I'm faster," she finished triumphantly.

But instead of resisting her hold, Sark jerked his entire body into it, somehow managing to avoid dislocating his shoulder. Sydney's leverage slipped unexpectedly from her grasp and the next thing she knew, he had flipped her onto the ground with enough force to slam the breath from her lungs.

He rolled immediately on top of her, pinning her to the ground with the weight of his body. "I'm stronger," he panted heavily, his muscled chest rising and falling over hers with perfect synchronization.

She knew by the way that Sark anchored her hands above her head that he thought he'd won. By all rights and means, he had. He clearly held the upper hand. From his steely grip around her wrists to the heavy weight of his hips pressing against hers, he had her pinned. But he underestimated her, just like he always did.

So she drove her knee upward, catching him directly in the groin.

Sark let out a horrific grunt, releasing her instantly. Scrambling out from underneath him, Sydney struggled to her feet and cradled her wounded shoulder tenderly in her hand, gasping for breath. Despite her own pain and discomfort, however, watching Sark groan pitifully on the ground—temporarily immobilized—brought about a thrilling rush of adrenaline that would fuel her self-esteem and provide an outlet of satisfaction that would last for days.

Sydney smirked one last time. "I'm smarter."

* * *

_Scene credit: Underworld_


	11. Hand Cover Bruises

**Title: **Silent Teardrops

**Chapter 11: **Hand Cover Bruises

**Disclaimer: **This story is for entertainment purposes only. The characters herein are the property of J.J. Abrams, Touchstone Television, and Bad Robot.

* * *

Sydney awoke to the fright of a hand clamped securely over her mouth.

But to the sound of her muffled scream, Sark only leaned close and whispered, "Sydney, they found us. We need to leave."

The CIA? She bolted upright, alert. Already dressed and ready, Sark waved her over to the far corner of the room where he'd lifted and thrown aside several of the wooden floorboards.

"Get in," he motioned to her. "It should lead to the cellar."

The drop through the dark wasn't as deep as she'd thought. By the time her eyes fully adjusted to the dim interior, Sydney had already settled herself nervously on the back of a monstrous motorcycle. It'd been a while since she last rode one—hopefully it was one of those skills that did not diminish over time.

The massive bike shifted as Sark leaped behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist in a secure and bruising vice grip.

While the engine snarled to life, Sydney dug her phone from her pocket. "Skyhook, this is White Rabbit," she called above the thunder of the engine.

Sark shifted uncomfortably behind her, and she knew he was restless. The deafening noise of the motorcycle rumbling to life was like a beacon letting the CIA agents know exactly where they were.

"_Copy, White Rabbit,_" came the reply over her phone.

"Tell me you can get us out of here thirty minutes early."

"_Affirmative._"

Sydney slapped the phone shut, fastened her helmet, and slammed a fresh magazine clip into her gun.

She released the choke on the bike and turned to Sark. "Better hang on," she told him grimly.

* * *

"Five times!" roared NSC director Robert Lindsay. "That's _five times _now you let Sydney Bristow get away!"

Eric Weiss shifted, restless. "Actually, sir, this is only the fourth—"

"How difficult can this possibly be?" the big man bellowed, his face reddening into an ugly puce color. "You find her, you detain her, you bring her in! She's just one woman, for heaven's sake!"

If Weiss had to guess, he'd wager Jack Bristow appeared just as perturbed as he felt. "What would you prefer we do, Directory Lindsay?" said Jack coldly. "Put a man at the airport? She's smarter than that. How many aliases do you think Sydney has? How many times has she slipped past customs and in how many countries?"

But Lindsay held up a warning hand to Jack, seemingly refusing to look at him. "I haven't even started on you yet, _Jack_," he spat. "I'd be careful if I were you. Let's not forget: Miss Bristow approached _you _in Los Angeles, and yet you did nothing to detain her. I'd hate to find out that your personal liabilities are affecting your duty to this country!"

"We're doing everything we can to locate Bristow," intervened Weiss hurriedly in a futile attempt to calm the man before he popped a blood vessel. "We've tracked her and Sark as far as a private airfield in Tilghman at 0800 this morning."

"And where are they headed now?" demanded Lindsay, rounding on him.

Weiss resisted the urge to rub the back of his neck embarrassingly. "We, ah…we'll have to re-task some our satellites over the area, but we'll know more in about an hour or so."

"An _hour_?" shouted Lindsay, flecks of spittle hitting Weiss's cheek. "By God, this office is an absolute disgrace!This is the Central _Intelligence _Agency, is it not?"

"Yes, sir, that is correct," resonated the calm, dismissive rumble that was Jack Bristow's voice, "and this is _my_ office. I must now ask you to leave it so I may return to locating my daughter."

"We'll notify your office once we have something to report," added Weiss, reveling in the big man's swell of anger.

Lindsay pointed a finger at him threateningly. "This isn't over, Agent Weiss. I am holding this office personally responsible for the disposition of Sydney Bristow. If she and Mr. Sark are not in federal custody by the end of the week, there's going to be hell to pay!"

It was only out of professional courtesy that Eric Weiss waited until Lindsay left the room before turning to Jack and grousing, "Three months recovering in the hospital for a gunshot wound to the back, and _this_ is what I come back to."

The tense muscle working steadily in Jack's jaw signaled his agreement. "Bob Lindsey has the White House spin machine ready to cover him when his actions prove ill-advised. He's nearly untouchable." Jack sighed heavily. "But technically, he's right. Ethically? The man's an ass."

* * *

**SEVI**L**LA, SP**A**IN**

"This is the worst disguise ever," Sydney scowled darkly under her breath. "I can't believe you talked me into going out in public like this."

Sark bit back a smile. "I don't think it looks so terrible," he offered, his eyes roving appreciatively over Sydney's get-up. "In fact, I'm particularly fond of the hair."

"The hair I can manage," she acknowledged, tossing her long, wavy brown tresses haughtily over one shoulder. "The problem is everything else. Leather is not the new denim, Sark."

"I assure you, no one will care once we are inside."

"I don't like it."

"I don't need you to like it, I need you to wear it."

"What is this, some sick little fantasy of yours?"

As they approached the front doorway of the grand hacienda, Sark stopped her, serious. It was an unusually bold move, cupping her face between his hands the way he did, and even he was surprised at his daring. More amazing still was the fact that she let him do it.

"I need you looking magnificent, Sydney, so that when we _strut_ through those doors and past the security, they'll be thinking about your neckline and not on their security protocols."

Sydney shifted deliberately out of his reach. "I thought you said this contact was a friend of yours."

"That was a long time ago. I'm afraid _friend _might be overstating matters a bit."

"Wonderful," she bit sarcastically, fidgeting agitatedly with the lace on her black leather bustier.

"I invite you to take my arm, Sydney, if we are going to bluff our way through this."

The look she gave him as he offered out his elbow was nothing short of disdain. "What, you think I don't know how to strut?"

"Just follow my lead."

A peculiar look crept onto her face. Then, she smiled, the image irresistibly alluring. She moved closer to tilt his chin down with an immaculately polished fingernail, holding him with her gaze. "How about you follow _my _lead instead? And try to keep up, darling."

Still holding his gaze with that impish smirk on her lips, she backed through the door and paraded into the room like she was royalty herself.

It surprised him that she should grab his hand so matter-of-factly, but Sark more than gladly allowed her to tow him through the crowd—clearly, _he_ was _her _eye candy this time, and she seemed intent on proving it.

As she leaned to whisper with the concierge, Sark didn't even try to disguise his admiration with the flattering emphasis the leather afforded her curves. The problem was, every other warm-blooded male in the vicinity seemed to share the exact same sentiment. One gentleman passing by was even so bold as to reach out and give her rear a squeeze.

Sark knocked him away with such force that the man tripped and crashed heavily to the floor in a disheveled, unsightly heap.

"You didn't need to do that," Sydney sang with a delightfully amused laugh, still in character.

"He wasn't part of the charade," said Sark simply. This time when he offered her his arm, she took it willingly, casting simpering smirks at passing guests.

Just as he predicted, the security personnel at the bottom of a set of stairs appeared unreservedly taken aback with Sydney as they approached.

"We're here to see Mr. Walker," announced Sark, never more consciously aware than now of just how stunning the woman on his arm really was.

"One moment," the guard managed, tearing his gaze away from Sydney long enough to speak into his comms. After a moment, he motioned them up the stairs. "You may go; Mr. Walker would like to speak with you."

As they ascended the winding staircase, Sark turned his head to whisper to her in a low voice, "I suppose I don't need to tell you how beautiful you look. Half the people in this room are still watching you."

"It's just an alias, Sark."

He laughed softly. "Still, I must say…your disguise, it addresses a certain proclivity of mine—"

But as Sark opened the door for her to enter first into the large, empty room, what felt like a solid metal object cracked hollowly off the back of his skull and he crumpled to the floor, temporarily immobilized. He heard a brief skirmish, multiple footsteps scuffling, then the dull smack of flesh colliding repeatedly into flesh before Sydney collapsed likewise next to him on the ground.

Trembling fingers gripped the concrete floor as Sark struggled to push himself upright, but another _crack!_ of the baton off the back of his head and he slumped back down. Feeling nauseous, he managed to twist his head to the right, searching for Sydney. She was curled on her side, breathing hard past a swollen and bleeding lip, but she too was holding his gaze.

Three sets of footsteps approached them now, one pair foolish enough to advance closer to Sydney. Sark waited until the man drew well within her reach before he gave her a quick, sure nod.

Both her feet shot out and Sark relished the satisfying _snap! _of breaking bones and cartilage as she found purchase on one of the man's knees.

"You fool!" cackled one of the men.

"I'll kill her!" the one on the floor hissed, limping unsteadily to his feet and pressing the barrel of his gun to Sydney's forehead.

"_Stop!_"

The three men snapped to attention as a fourth man joined the melee.

Slow, sturdy footsteps; a pause. Then, a sharp intake of breath from the new arrival. "Do you know who this woman is?"

"No, sir."

A smart slap like the back of a hand colliding against flesh, and Sark flinched.

"You strike this woman and you strike me in the heart," the man barked authoritatively. "Understand?"

"Y-yes, Mr. Walker, sir," came the meek reply.

With his face still half-mashed into the floor, Sark could barely muster the strength to roll gingerly onto his side. His vision was blurred, unfocused, but he was able to make out the vague silhouette of a man carefully helping Sydney to her feet.

Then, in an unanticipated move that even Sark wasn't prepared for, Simon Walker brought his lips to Sydney's in a passionate and bruising kiss.

Sark could only stare, nonplussed.

Walker finally broke the kiss. "Good to see you, Julia," he smiled broadly at her.


	12. I Prefer Julia

**Title: **Silent Teardrops

**Chapter 12: **I Prefer Julia

**Disclaimer: **This story is for entertainment purposes only. The characters herein are the property of J.J. Abrams, Touchstone Television, and Bad Robot.

**Author's Note: **_Five years between updates? Not bad._

* * *

"Good to see you, Julia."

Despite her ruined and broken lip, Sydney managed what she considered to be a charmingly enchanting smile. "Hello, Simon."

"_Hello?_" Simon Walker threw back his head and laughed a short, barklike laugh. "You always did have me at 'hello,' Jules," he snickered, leaning forward to press his lips against hers once more. "Although, I hear you're going by a new name these days: Sydney Bristow." He grimaced like the name had left him with a rather unpleasant aftertaste. "You'll have to forgive me, but I prefer _Julia._"

"You know each other?" Sark was rising carefully to his feet, wincing as he rubbed a tender spot on the back of his head.

Sydney started; she'd nearly forgotten Sark was there. "Simon and I were on point together during the Algeria armory job two years ago."

"Fantastic," muttered Sark, and Sydney caught the double meaning in his narrowed eyes: _Fantastic that she should leave out that critical tidbit of information._

"I should ask you the same question," she added sharply, looking between the two men for an explanation. "How do you know each other?"

"Well, babe, that's a wonderful little story," growled Walker, rounding menacingly on Sark. "We're old friends, now. Aren't we, Mr. Sark?"

"You're angry," remarked Sark mildly, hardly batting an eye. "Given the circumstances, I understand. There's good reason. After all, I took your brother's life."

"'Took his life?'" Walker shoved him against the wall, a fist clenched against his throat. "What an interesting choice of words. I mean, personally, I would have gone for something a little bit more colorful…like, um, 'murdered.' No, even that's not—how about, um, '_slaughtered_?' Yeah, 'slaughtered.' Try that."

"For the record," panted Sark, straining to free his throat, "you should know that with his last breath, your brother wept for his life like a little girl—"

With a snarl of fury, Walker raised his fist to his face but Sydney stealthily intervened. "Stop," she ordered harshly, pulling his hand away. "Enough with the rulers—we don't have time for your pissing contests. We have business to discuss. _Simon._"

With a rather irritated scowl her direction, Walker gave Sark one last shove before stepping regretfully away. "You're lucky you're my superior for now, Mr. Sark, or this conversation would be heading an entirely different direction."

Sark readjusted his shirt collar. "Yes, well. You have now wasted time we do not have and seeing as how we _are _your superiors, I'm afraid you'll just have to do as we ask. Sydney and I have both made sacrifices. Seeing as how you are familiar with the concept, I trust you are willing to do the same."

Just when it looked as if Walker was about to take another swing at him, Sydney laid a calm but warning hand on his chest. "Hey," she coaxed softly, almost whispering the plea cajolingly in his ear. "Come on, let's just talk. Okay?" She tilted his chin to hers to offer him her most winning smile yet, and the man immediately relented.

"Come," Walker said shortly and not without resentment. "We will speak in private."

With a particularly meaningful and cautionary look at Sark, Sydney turned to follow Walker from the room.

As they passed the three henchmen who attacked them earlier, however, Sark slowed. "Which one of you three gentlemen do I have to thank for the generous welcome from before?"

None of the men answered, although one of them shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

_Whaaam. _

One swift punch to the man's jaw and the guilty culprit stumbled to the ground. Satisfied, Sark looked back at Sydney. "Let's go," he said waspishly, furtively massaging his knuckles.

* * *

"Absolutely not!" roared Jack Bristow.

"Jack—"

"Under no circumstances, Mr. Weiss, will I approve this plan to go forward!"

"Sir, Director Lindsay's already signed the order. He thinks it's a brilliant idea—"

"Then clearly, he's an idiot," fumed the older man.

Weiss considered it diplomatic of himself not to respond to that. "Sir, I don't like this any more than you do," he said in a low voice, "but our agent's already en route. This is deep cover—the risks are obvious. If we pull him out now, we risk blowing his cover. And who knows? This could work. If he traces these people back to the Covenant, he might be able to find Sydney. We lost the satellite feed of her and Sark, which means we don't have a clue where she's at. So right now, this guy's our best shot at bringing her home safe."

Jack squinted at him, working his jaw in a frenzy. "So in truth, this is just a courtesy call."

"A—what?" Weiss faltered, puzzled.

"A courtesy call. Like when you say to your neighbor, 'We're having a loud party Saturday night if that's all right with you.' What you really mean is, 'We're having a loud party on Saturday night.'"

"I—yeah, pretty much."

* * *

If Sydney was trying to avoid broaching the proverbial elephant in the room, Sark decided she did a terrible job at hiding it. "It seems you failed to mention you had a particular history with Simon Walker," he said to her quietly in a low voice.

"_I _failed to mention?" echoed Sydney, her dark eyes narrowing dangerously as they always did when she grew angry. "Let's not forget that you never mentioned the contact you spoke of _was_ Simon Walker! You said he was a friend of yours—what the _hell_ kind of friends do you keep, Sark?"

"I might be making the same inquires of the company _you _keep. Correct me if I'm wrong, Sydney, but what peaks my interest is my suspicion that the relationship between you and Mr. Walker isn't exactly platonic."

"No, what peaked your interest was hearing Simon Walker call me 'Julia' and then kiss me like his prom date."

"Who _is_ Julia?"

"Julia Thorne. It's an alias I used two years ago while I was still with Simon. He was a private contractor back then, as was I before the Covenant."

Sark labored to disguise his tone as casual. "And…how long were you with him?"

"The answer to that has nothing to do with you."

"How long were you with him for, Sydney?"

She gave him a withering stare, one he'd become quite familiar with by now. "Long enough. It wasn't a healthy relationship."

An unfamiliar churning sensation began to rumble in the pit of his stomach as Simon Walker returned to the room, and Sark wondered if he was going to be sick.

"Now," said Walker, settling comfortably across from them, "tell me, Julia—and don't be coy—what is the nature of your business?"

Sark shifted forward, steepling his fingers together at the tips. "The Covenant—"

"I believe I was talking to Julia, mate," interrupted Walker wryly, nodding pointedly at Sydney.

_Hate _wasn't a strong enough word. If they weren't in such desperate need of Simon Walker's services, Sark would've murdered the man where he sat. It was just like Sydney to sense his quiet displeasure, though; she rested a calming hand surreptitiously on his leg, silently warning him to calm down.

"As I'm sure you are aware, we represent certain interests that stand to profit should the market fall," said Sydney evenly. "If you would provide us with some insider information, we would be happy to split the profits."

"How kind of you," Walker nodded, raising a glass. "Information concerning what?"

"There is an epidemiology lab in France. The place does cutting-edge vaccine research into viruses like West Nile, HIV, and Ebola. We need a level four pathogen, the highest classification."

"In other words, you want it to do what it is intended to do."

Sydney smiled shrewdly. "You're reading me loud and clear."

Simon Walker leaned back, seemingly considering her request. "Very difficult. The political tension in that country—"

"Means that you're the only reliable source."

"Very difficult."

"But not impossible for you, right?"

"Very difficult."

"Expensive, in other words?"

"Now you're reading _me _loud and clear."

"If money was not an issue, do you have a team in mind?"

Walker stalled, running his tongue noisily over the front of his teeth as he lazily looked Sydney up and down. "You know, Jules," he began pensively, "when you left that morning…you just disappeared. You didn't call, you didn't write—it was a right kick in the stomach, really. And I carried that around for a long time."

Now it was _Sark's _turn to subtly remind Sydney of her temper as he felt her nails suddenly clench excruciatingly deep into his knee.

"And what? Now you're mad at me?" she said sarcastically.

"I barely recognized you, you know—that's how long it's been. And now you waltz back in here with barely a 'hello' and you start asking for favors? I just want to know where the bloody hell you've been all these years."

Sark was impressed that Sydney didn't seem to feel the need to answer. "A girl's gotta have her secrets," was the short reply she gave in her cool, guarded tone.

But her curt response only appeared to agitate him somehow. Walker eyed her darkly, then turned to Sark instead with a rather peculiar expression. "Mr. Sark. You never told me how _you _met our Julia," he said with a curl of his lip.

Sark hesitated. "I—"

"Are you lovers or something?"

Sydney quickly removed her hand from his knee, and Sark had to cough into his fist. "Not exactly."

A strangely cruel malice crept its way into Simon Walker's smile as he sneered, "I ask if you're lovers because if you ever get the chance, I highly recommend it."

There was an unmistakable rigidity in Sydney's posture now and even Sark became uncomfortable. "Do you?" he managed tersely.

"Oh, yeah, mate," leered Walker, glancing nastily at Sydney. "Julia was the wildest girl I ever had."

"_Simon_—"

"On a scale of one to ten—and ten being the most degenerative displays of sexual theater known to man—Julia's like a seventeen."

Sydney looked positively lethal. Every line in her stony face was etched with ice-cold fury that radiated from her skin in undulating waves. "You son of a bitch, _now_ I remember why I left. We have a job coming up, and we need a team assembled by tomorrow—_do you or do you not know a team?_"

"Jules, I know just the sort," pronounced Walker triumphantly. "They're all freelancers, the lot of them. 'Course, I had to replace my security specialist on short notice—it's too bad, what happened to Bogdan—but they're not a bad lot; I could give them a call and they'd be at the safehouse by the morning. You remember the place in Málaga, do you?"

"I do."

"All right, then! It's settled, innit?"

"I need the files on each of your team members. I need to know who exactly we're working with before we agree to your terms."

"I had a feeling you would ask," smiled Walker broadly, producing them from behind his back with a silly flourish.

As Sydney leaned close to snatch the files, Walker moved to plant an open-mouthed kiss on her lips. She turned away, cold.

"Come now, Jules, don't be in a strop!" he coaxed her in viscous tones. "Look, I shouldn't have said what I did before, all right? It's just…I've missed you, is all. You were the last person that I ever wanted to see again, ever, and you were the only person I ever wanted to see again. I'm a right nutter, I am, for letting you go in the first place. Come on, Julia. It won't happen again."

This time when Simon Walker leaned forward to kiss her, Sydney put a finger coyly against his lips, stopping him. "Same old Simon," she cooed smugly, regaling him with a lazy gaze. "Always wanting what you cannot have; always having what you cannot keep."

"Jules—"

Sydney abruptly covered Walker's mouth roughly with her own, effectively silencing him. An unexpected snarl rumbled in the back of Sark's throat, and he had to look at away at the sickening sight of Sydney's lips crushed so violently against Walker's. When she finally pulled away, Walker appeared stunned to silence.

"We'll be in touch," said Sydney smoothly.

"You're mad," laughed Simon Walker with a surreptitious wink. "What a tease you are."

His hearty chuckle echoed behind them even as the pair of them descended the marble staircase into the main floor of the hacienda once more.

The moment they were alone, Sydney spoke up quietly in a low voice, "I know what you're thinking, Sark."

Sark shot her a double take. "You haven't the slightest idea what I'm thinking, I assure you."

She snagged his elbow, whirling him to face her. "This could work to our advantage," she said seriously. "Simon could be an asset."

He shook her hand off. "An asset to you in ways that do not interest me. I suppose I needn't wonder about the platonic nature of your relationship with Simon Walker anymore."

"What's it to you?" demanded Sydney sharply. "Simon gets his money, the Covenant gets their bioweapon, you get your 800 million."

"And you? What do _you_ get out of this, Sydney?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Don't patronize me. I see the way Simon Walker repulses you, and yet you give yourself to him so easily?"

"Maybe I'm used to cheap men throwing themselves at me," suggested Sydney with a pointedly raised brow.

"No," he decided, "no, even you are not that selfless. You can't possibly expect me to hold you in such high regard. As much as you might hate to admit it, you and I are exactly alike, and I—" Sark stepped closer, "—I never do anything without first demanding something in return. So, I ask you again: what do you get out of all this, Sydney?"

She raised her chin a fraction of an inch in an expression of defiance that Sark had become quite familiar with by now. "Maybe I'm angling for that new promotion at work," she quipped lightly with a humor that somehow did not extend to her eyes.

"We both know you're no more loyal to the Covenant than I am."

A strange sort of smug smile crept onto her lips, maddening him. "I don't know, then," Sydney replied coyly. "It's a mystery."

Frustrated—and knowing he wasn't likely to extract a better response from her than that—Sark turned away and continued walking. From the slow, steady trod of her footsteps, he knew she was trailing distractedly behind him by several feet, but he did not slow his pace.

"Sark."

The first time she called his name, he ignored her. The second time she called his name, the sharpness of her tone was alarming enough to snag his attention, and he immediately backtracked to her side. She was carrying the pile of folders that Simon Walker had offered them, and Sark craned his neck to see what inflicted her with such alarm and distress.

"What is it?"

For an answer, she wordlessly thrust the stack of files at him.

At first glance, it appeared similar enough to the usual debriefings assembled for such an occasion, listing separate facts and statistics—right down to which side of the bed they slept in at night—on each of the freelance team members that Walker had suggested for their next heist.

So initially, Sark failed to identify the problem. "Simon Walker," he read, his brow furrowed, "Avery Russett…Javier Perez…"

But now, even he shot a double take at the last picture listed under the name of the security specialist who was to serve as the team's last-minute replacement for Laszlo Bogdan.

"I don't understand," Sark frowned, reading. "_Will Tippin_?"


	13. Double Agent

**Title: **Silent Teardrops

**Chapter 13: **Double Agent

**Disclaimer: **This story is for entertainment purposes only. The characters herein are the property of J.J. Abrams, Touchstone Television, and Bad Robot.

* * *

When Sydney wiped the shower steam off the bathroom mirror inside her safehouse, it was with a jarring, unpleasant shock that she noticed a familiar figure behind her in the mirror's foggy reflection.

"_Sark_!" she yelped, whirling to face the intruder who was observing her so matter-of-factly from inside the bathroom doorway.

"Hello, Sydney," greeted Julian Sark in his customary clipped and formal fashion.

"How long have you been standing there?" she asked darkly, pulling the thick white towel higher over her chest.

"Long enough." Sark's poor attempt at disguising his grin only confirmed her suspicions. "Forgive my forwardness…but I never noticed before what an intriguing tattoo you have…or was it a birthmark?"

"The hell is wrong with you?" she hissed, striding past him into the bedroom. "Breaking into my room and watching me while I'm in the shower? You're sick."

"I knocked. You didn't answer," he replied simply, following her into the other room. "I grew concerned."

"I highly doubt that."

"You doubt my concern for you?"

"Among other things."

"You shouldn't. I happen to care a great deal for you. More than you know, perhaps."

Upon snatching a terrycloth robe from the closet, Sydney whirled around and nearly collided into Sark, whose bright blue eyes gleamed mere inches from her own. "Do you mind?" she asked coolly.

Obligingly, he turned his back. "I must confess this isn't entirely a social visit," he called over his shoulder, facing the wall. "I'm afraid I've come to discuss a rather sensitive matter with you: Will Tippin."

Sydney dropped the towel to her ankles and kicked it away. "We've been over this already," she grunted, wrestling her arms through the sleeves of her robe. "Tippin's role in Simon Walker's team is not our concern. It changes nothing. We proceed as planned."

"Ah, but you see… _my_ chagrin begins with the fact that Will Tippin shouldn't even be alive at all, much less alive under an alias with a well-known freelancer that the Covenant is known to frequent. Now, given his previous affiliations, we have to assume Tippin is in bed with the CIA."

"You think he's a rat?"

"I suspect his motives and association with Simon Walker to be different from what they appear, yes. If Tippin is truly clandestine CIA—"

"Sark, let's stop dancing around these big words. Will's history with the agency is the exact same as mine. He's under no more cause for suspicion than I am."

"I am aware of that, yes."

Sydney tightened the sash around her waist with slightly more force than necessary. "So, what you're saying is you don't trust me either?"

Sark turned around, momentarily grave. "I have never underestimated your intelligence, Sydney. You must now pay me the same courtesy and not underestimate mine."

"Meaning?"

"Like Tippin, you are hiding something—your own personal endgame, perhaps—and I intend to find out what that is."

Sydney was unfazed. "If you suspect I'm not being entirely truthful with the Covenant, why haven't you voiced your concerns to McKenas Cole by now? A maneuver like that and you'd become the new sole leader of the North American cell."

"Perhaps I enjoy the pleasure of your company."

"Don't mock me."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

She cocked her head to the side, studying him. "No," she mused slowly. "No, you're hiding something as well. You haven't told the Covenant your suspicions yet because withholding that information benefits you somehow."

"It appears we all have our secrets," he said softly, peering at her keenly.

She looked away.

"Sydney, what I said before about Will Tippin…I meant it. If at any point during this operation I believe he's become a problem, I will _fix_ that problem. Do we understand each other?"

Fixing her gaze on him once more, she said coldly, "If it comes to that point, then I will kill him myself."

Sark raised his eyebrows, seemingly impressed by her reply. "Do you truly mean that?"

"I do."

"Excellent. We have an accord, then."

Ignoring his outstretched hand, Sydney sidestepped him wordlessly to the window, peeling back the curtain.

Quiet footsteps followed her from behind, then Sark's low voice from just over her shoulder: "You should know, Sydney, that when I said I enjoyed the pleasure of your company earlier…I wasn't mocking you."

But Sydney raised a warning hand in the air. "Quiet," she murmured sharply, craning her neck to peer out the window.

"What is it?"

"Do you hear that?"

Sark paused. "Hear what?"

"Nothing," she answered, perturbed. "Absolute silence…"

Another few seconds' pause, then their eyes slammed together with a synchronized, terrible bout of understanding. Sydney launched herself at Sark, knocking him to the carpeted floor not a moment too soon.

A jarring blast shattered the glass window behind which they both had stood only seconds earlier and suddenly, the ground was littered with a hundred shards of tiny glass fragments.

"CIA?" shouted Sark.

"Not likely," she panted. "It's not exactly their policy to shoot first and ask questions later—"

Another rip of gunfire peppered the room, causing them both to shudder.

"Do you have a weapon on you?" hollered Sark above the deafening gunshots.

Despite the precariousness of their situation, Sydney couldn't help fixing him with a withering glare. "Look at me, Sark," she snapped. "I'm wearing a towel. Where would I possibly stash a weapon?"

"No place _I_ want to know about," muttered Sark under his breath.

But that got her thinking. She _did _have a gun strapped to the inside of the wardrobe across the room…

_It's worth a shot,_ she thought grimly to herself, braving the deadly ricochet of bullets as she began to inch across the room on her hands and knees. A sharp and unexpected slap at her ankle made her cry out in surprise and alarm.

"Wait!" called Sark sharply, and she followed his gaze to the metal, cylindrical canister rolling fast her direction.

Sydney swore. "Back up, back up!" she barked, recoiling from the CS gas.

But the grenade exploded, sending shrapnel fragments the size of soft drink lids into the air and engulfing the room with a yellow, powdery cloud. Due to her unfortunate proximity to the grenade, Sydney received a face full of it.

Instantly, the tear gas caused her eyes and nose to water. The taste was bitter, pungent enough to induce a sickening bout of nausea. She made the mistake of allowing herself a tiny cough and shortly after that, each agonizing intake of air was like breathing in fire.

Struggling to her feet, she stumbled across the room to the wardrobe and groped inside it for her gun. Before she could fully grasp it with her fingertips, however, she felt a rough hand grab a fistful of hair at the nape of her neck and slam her face-first into the wall.

She collapsed to the ground at the feet of her attacker, dazed. Squinting through her blurry field of vision, she saw her assailant raise the butt end of a rifle above her head. Just before it came crashing down on her face, she rolled to the side, grabbed a particularly jagged shard of glass from one of the broken windows and drove it directly below her attacker's kneecap. A wild howl of pain from above, then an anguished grunt as Sydney kicked upwards with all her might, her foot catching her assailant in the crotch.

The man's rifle clattered noisily to the ground and Sydney dove for it, using it to push herself upright. Still gripping the barrel with both hands, she swung the handle across the man's face with as much strength she could muster. She heard the sound of multiple teeth shattering as the swing caught the man square in the mouth, and he collapsed to the ground unconscious.

But Sydney hadn't done more than inhale a shaky breath of air before a solid object came crashing down atop her skull from behind and she crumpled to her knees, winded. The blow to her already dazed and sensitive head—coupled with the nausea from the CS gas—was enough to induce a sickening stream of vomit that gushed past her lips onto the floor.

An uppercut to the chin knocked her onto her side. What felt like the barrel of a gun pressed itself to her temple and Sydney grimaced, preparing herself for the killing shot that she would neither hear nor feel.

Instead, she felt strong hands wrench her up mercilessly by her hair. A muscular arm snaked its way around her neck and she clutched at the arm, gasping.

"Let her go," came Sark's gravelly voice somewhere to her right.

The arm on her throat only tightened in response, further crushing her windpipe. "Drop your gun," her assailant barked, backing away and dragging Sydney with him.

"Not a chance," sneered Sark, advancing closer.

"Drop your weapon or I drop her!" the man spat, and Sydney felt the gun bore into her temple once more.

Sark stopped midstride, frozen. His gun, however, remained leveled.

"If you care at all whether this woman lives or dies, Mr. Sark," the man continued, "you will lower your weapon."

The pressure over her throat increased and Sydney choked, bleeding for air. "Sark, don't—" she managed to croak before the man pistol-whipped her across the cheek.

An angry snarl ripped its way past Sark's lips. "_You son of a bitch,"_ he rasped, taking another half-step forward.

The man pressed the gun into the fleshly side of her face. "Enough! Another step and she dies!"

Despite the tears streaming profusely down her face, Sydney tried to communicate to him a firm "no" with her eyes. Sark met her gaze unflinchingly, but whatever expression he saw twisted into the contours of her face seemed to settle his resolve.

Much to her chagrin, Sark lowered his hands, ejected the magazine from the gun, and tossed the two parts to the floor.

"Very good," the man declared, triumphant. "Now. Mr. Sark? Miss Thorne? Let us talk now together, hmm?"

* * *

"Head's up, Jonah!"

Will Tippin looked up and managed to catch the glass bottle just before it hit his head.

"Stay sharp now," the other man warned gruffly, clapping him loudly on the back. "We got a job coming up soon. Can't be looking too lax out there, you hear me?"

"Sure. Yeah. I hear you, Russett," replied Will with an easy laugh, gratefully snapping the lid off the beer. "You hear anything about this new job?"

Avery Russett shook his head. "Look, all I know is what Simon tells me. He says we got a job, we got a job. Hey," he added in his thick Scottish accent, "don't you go worrying, now. You'll be fine. As long as you keep your head on straight, you'll be fine."

"No, yeah, I got it," Will agreed, waving this aside. "I'm just thinking who it is this time. Another local drug lord, you think?"

"Nah," grunted Russett, cracking open his own bottle of beer. "We're running with the big boys now. Rumor has it we're working for Julia Thorne herself."

Will quickly ran the name through his mental list of known Covenant operatives the CIA had made him memorize upon receiving his deep cover assignment. "Never heard of her," he shrugged indifferently. He nearly choked on his beer when Russett smacked him unexpectedly upside the head.

"That's for being ignorant," he growled.

"All right, all right, take it easy!" frowned Will, rubbing the back of his head. "Who's Julia Thorne?"

"Only second-in-command to McKenas Cole! Have you gone thick, man? Where've you been, under a rock?"

Will straightened upright in his chair, alert and attentive. "We're dealing with Covenant leadership?" He whistled appreciatively. "Looks like we really are stepping up to the major league plates now."

"Aye, that we are." Russett made a show of looking over his shoulder before leaning closer and lowering his voice conspiratorially. "And between you and me, Jonah? The girl's a dame."

"Yeah?" grinned Will.

"Let's just say I wouldn't kick _that _out of bed, you know what I mean?"

"She's a real looker, huh?"

"Big time," agreed Russett emphatically with a hearty chuckle. "But take it from me: don't let the boss catch you looking twice at her, you hear?"

"What, they had some sort of falling out?" guessed Will, mentally cataloging all this in the back of his mind for future reference.

"Like you wouldn't believe," he snorted darkly. "The way I hear it, she ducked Simon a few years back to take a management position with the Covenant instead. Freelance work just wasn't cutting it anymore. No future in murder, I suppose. Aye, he's better off anyhow. That dame's trouble, mark me words…"

"I see. So, you asked her out and she turned you down, huh?"

The other man made a lunge for him but Will dodged out of reach, laughing. "Sod off," growled Russett. "You're lucky I don't knock your ruddy face in, you know."

Before Will could open his mouth to reply, the sound of a nearby gunshot jarred them both to attention.

They looked at one another, then scrambled from their chairs toward the direction of the shot. As they neared the outside corridor, Will began to catch snippets of angry voices in the middle of a heated argument.

"—kill her, I swear I will!" shouted the familiar roar of Javier Perez.

"For God's sake, man, pull yourself together!" came Simon Walker's voice over the sound of hurried, scuffling feet.

"You do not know, Simon! We cannot trust her!"

"Yes, Javier, go on," sneered a startlingly familiar female voice. "Tell him all about how I'm a double agent and spy! Tell him I'm not to be trusted; go on!"

"Simon," panted Russett as they trotted into view of the group, "what the bloody hell is going on?"

But Will was focused on only one person in the group, and it wasn't Simon Walker. It wasn't even Julian Sark, whose unexpected presence alone would normally be enough to rattle him and catch him off guard. No, Will Tippin was focused on only one person.

Before he could stop himself, he blurted out in a strained voice, "Sydney?"

Both Sydney and Javier Perez whipped around at the mention of the name. "Yes! See?" shouted Javier, pointing. "Even Jonah recognizes this woman for who she is: Agent Sydney Bristow of the Central Intelligence Agency!"

"I left the agency years ago, you freak," snarled Sydney darkly with a curl of her lip.

Javier whirled on her with what looked like a .9mm in his hand. "My sources advise me differently, Miss Thorne. Or should I say…_Agent_ _Bristow?" _

Sydney leaned close, struggling against the two men that held her back. "Say whatever you want, you son of a bitch. Either way, I'm going to enjoy the look on your face when I kill you—"

A sharp _slap! _and Javier struck her across the cheek. Sydney wiped her mouth on her shoulder, then sprayed a bloody spit to his face.

"_Enough!_" barked Simon, dragging Javier roughly away and wrenching the gun from his hand.

Javier stumbled heavily into Will, almost knocking him to the ground. "I tell you, Simon, we cannot trust this woman!" repeated Javier, wiping his face. "I spoke with my source inside the CIA—"

"You have a mole inside the agency?" blurted out Will for the second time, and Sydney shot him a murderous warning to shut up.

"—and was warned that Julia Thorne—Sydney Bristow— is a double agent against the Covenant, and that we should kill her while we have the chance!"

"_What_?"

"That's absurd," called Sydney loudly.

"Seeing how I'm not the one under suspect at the moment," spoke up Sark suddenly, "might I request I be released—"

"Shut up!" snapped Simon, Javier, and Sydney harshly at the same time.

"She does not give a damn about this next heist, either," continued Javier menacingly, his dark eyes flashing daggers. "This supposed job she has for us? It is a ruse! A filthy ploy for her to gain leverage against the Covenant. We are nothing more than pawns in her own personal vendetta!"

"I suggest you get your facts straight, Javier," spat Sydney. Turning to Walker, she hissed, "_Simon_, tell me you don't believe him!"

"And why shouldn't I?" asked Simon coldly with little inflection other than one of mild disinterest. "He has a point, Jules. Bogdan's in federal custody now because of you…and let's not forget you're working with this nutter," he added, throwing a contemptuous glance Sark's direction.

"Doesn't it bother you, Walker?" interjected Sark scathingly. "The fact that you are willing to jeopardize this entire operation because you lost a pissing match? I don't know about you, but I find that a touch pathetic—"

"Shut up!" snarled Simon and Javier together once more.

"Let me tell you something, Simon," hissed Sydney in a low voice, fighting against her restraints. "If I was a double agent and spy for the U.S. government, I wouldn't waste my time with the charade of continuing with this next job. I already know the location of your headquarters. I know the security measures guarding your safehouse in Pamplona. I have files on the names and faces of every member on your team—files _you _gave me—and now I know you have a mole inside the Central Intelligence Agency."

Simon leveled a gun at her forehead. "In that case, maybe I should kill you now."

"You could. But know that if you do kill me and it turns out I am who I say I am, you would've just murdered a senior-ranking Covenant official—a leader of an organization that signs your paychecks, bankrolls your operations, provides you the very air you breathe. There isn't a safehouse in the world you can run to that the Covenant won't find you at." Sydney leaned forward until the barrel of the gun pressed flush against her skin. "It's your choice."

Forgetting all semblances of neutrality, Will's eyes openly darted back and forth between Sydney and Simon like a spectator at an avid tennis match. Gripping the sidearm behind his back, he had half a mind to intervene, lest one of the dearest people to him in the world be executed before his eyes.

_You'll blow your cover! _a panicked voice screeched in the back of his mind, but Will had already settled his resolve. He'd lost Sydney once; he wasn't about to lose her again.

Just as he began to elbow his way forward, however, Simon Walker looked to the pair of guards behind Sydney. "Release her," he ordered sternly, keeping the gun leveled.

Sydney stumbled forward, then straightened to her full height in a posture of grit and defiance. Taking a step deliberately closer, Simon lowered the gun to his side, then reached to wrap her in a passionate embrace. Somewhere from over his shoulder, Will heard what sounded like a disgusted hiss of exasperation from Javier.

"Babe," grinned Simon broadly before covering her mouth briefly with his. Pulling apart, he placed his gun in the center of her palm, explaining, "As a gesture of good faith."

An angry string of expletives exploded from Javier in his native Spanish tongue. "This is ridiculous!" he spat, glaring as Sark was likewise released from his restraints.

"If Julia says she's with us, she's with us," replied Simon firmly, tightening his arm around Sydney's shoulders.

"Prove it!" Javier rasped contemptuously.

Sydney lifted an eyebrow. "As you wish." Deftly angling the pistol in her palm, she raised the gun in the air and fired.

The bullet passed so close to Will that he felt the uncomfortable heat of the acrid metal on his face as it whizzed past and struck Javier in the upper thigh.

Javier hit the ground flat on his back. "You shot me!" he roared at her, his brow contorted with a terrible mixture of pain and anger.

"And I'll _keep_ shooting until you bleed to death," she snarled, advancing forward.

Simon and Russett rushed forward to block her way. "Julia, what the bloody hell are you on about!"

"You heard him," answered Sydney coldly, seemingly allowing Sark to pull her away from them a few steps. "He was more interested in nursing his own pride than getting the job done—I just did us all a favor!"

"You going to keep that?" asked Russett resentfully, keeping a wary eye on the weapon in her hand.

She tucked it beneath her waistband. "Javier took this from me. I'm taking it back. And I suggest you start looking for someone new to run surveillance. I don't think Javier will be turning in to work today."

A slow grin began to creep into Simon's face, seemingly impressed by her boldness. "Javier was my right-hand man."

She smirked. "_I'm _your right hand now."

Simon threw back his head and laughed a short, barklike laugh. "You're deliciously filthy, you are! Do you realize the sorts of things I do with my right hand?"

"You leave in three hours. I suggest you find a replacement for him, or our deal is off."

Simon whirled and pointed a finger at Will. "You. Jonah. Stay here. Avery, you're with me."

Will hastily cleared his throat. "Sir?" he called after him. "Ah, what should I do with Javier?"

Turning, Simon looked first to Will, then to where Javier lay crumpled anxiously on the ground. Returning his gaze meaningfully to Will, he waved his hand indifferently in the air. "Kill him," he said coldly before sweeping from the room.

Feeling rather sick and light-headed, Will sluggishly withdrew his sidearm and approached Javier tepidly with a peculiar, churning sensation clawing at the pit of his stomach. An icy hand covered his and Will recoiled, startled.

It was Sydney. "Will," she said quietly, her hand on his firmly lowering the gun to his side. "It's okay."

Realizing what she planned to do, he tried to shake his head emphatically. "Syd, _no_," he whispered insistently under his breath, but she had already lifted his fingers from the handle and replaced them with hers.

"Will, it's okay," she repeated, and Javier's eyes narrowed furiously at the familiar exchange of words between them.

"I knew it!" Javier rasped hoarsely, his entire body trembling from rage and contempt.

Will watched, horrified, as his beloved friend—the clumsy, college freshman girl who he'd once help collect her biology books for—looked at Javier, raised the gun, and pointed it at his head.

"I told you I'd enjoy this," Sydney whispered softly before squeezing the trigger.


End file.
